


And Then There Was You

by Periwinkle39



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Downton Abbey Fusion, Downton Abbey AU, Edwardian AU, Edwardian Period, F/M, Gendrya - Freeform, Slow Burn, gendry is not a Baratheon, jonsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 04:45:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19822819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Periwinkle39/pseuds/Periwinkle39
Summary: Lord Ned Stark and his family live in a beautiful stately home called Winterfell in the northern English county over which he presides as earl. His wife, Lady Catelyn Stark, is an American heiress whose fortune helped secure the Stark estate and keeps it running. They have three children: Robb, Sansa and Arya. Robb, who was set to inherit everything, has died tragically. By law, Ned’s heir is the next oldest male Stark and that turns out to be a distant cousin named Jon. In other words: A Downton Abbey/Edwardian AU in which Jon and Sansa mirror the Matthew/Mary story, and Arya and Gendry mirror the Sybil/Tom story. Mostly Jonsa, especially at the beginning, but Gendrya will have their own concurrent story eventually. Tags will be updated as the story goes along.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've read many jonsa fics and have never run across a Downton AU, so I thought I'd take it on as I love both shows. (If there are others out there, I just want to share in the fun.) If you are not familiar with Downton Abbey, all you need to know is that after Robb’s death, by law, Ned’s heir is the next oldest legitimate Stark man, not his daughters, and the presence of the new heir changes their lives. In this universe, Jon must be a Stark. To make that work, his father is Benjen Stark, a distant cousin of Ned’s. Benjen married a woman named Lyanna and had three boys, Jon, Bran and Rickon. (I still wanted Bran and Rickon around, but they can’t be Ned’s. If they were, they’d be the heirs after Robb.) Benjen Stark’s family were close to the Starks in Winterfell many years ago, until Benjen decided to take a foreign posting with the British government and moved his family to India. Benjen passed away a few years ago, but the rest of his family stayed and have been living in India for ten years when the story starts in the early 1910s. Lastly, historical events won’t really be a part of this story the way they are referenced on Downton Abbey. Here’s how old the “kids” are:
> 
> Jon 26  
> Sansa 23  
> Arya 22  
> Bran 18  
> Rickon 17
> 
> I have a broad outline for this, but I’m not sure how long it will end up. I’ll do my best to update regularly. Comments are fuel, so if you are reading, please let me know what you think!

Standing at the window, staring at nothing in particular, Catelyn didn’t turn when Ned walked into the room. He was glad at least that she had managed to get out of bed and get dressed. It had scarcely been a week since they’d lost their son, and he could still see the wear of her grief on her body. Her shoulders, usually upright, strong, proud, now sagged with the weight of loss.

“What did Jory Cassel say?”

Her voice startled him, but he answered quickly. This was the very topic he wanted to broach with her and was dreading doing so, knowing what it meant. “He sent the telegram this morning,” Ned replied. “Jon will get my letter soon enough.”

“Do you suppose they’ll come?”

“Jon will likely want to visit to pay his respects, at least, but it’s not as if his life has to change immediately if he doesn’t want it to.”

“I just want to prepare myself because right now I can’t bear the thought of having to look at him.”

“Cat—“

“Why should he get everything, I ask you? Are my daughters not worthy? Does this house not stand because of the Tully fortune?”

“Cat,” Ned repeat more quietly.

“He’s a stranger to me, Ned. A perfect stranger will take what is mine, what my father built for his children and his children’s children. You cannot ask me to be happy about it.”

He approached her gently and put his hands on her now shaking shoulders. Her face was buried in her hands as she cried again. “I cannot change the law,” he said. “Jon is my heir now, and he is family. Benjen was an honorable, dutiful man, and he raised his son to be as much. I have no doubt Jon will do honor to the title when the time comes, but that time is not today. It won’t be for many, many years, if God grants me a long life.”

Catelyn turned and accepted her husband’s comfort. “I just want my boy back,” she said, between quiet sobs.

Ned pulled her into him. He closed his eyes as she cried in his arms and wished he could take some of her pain, even as it reflected his own. “Jon will never replace Robb, not in our hearts and memories, but we must carry on.”

After several deep breaths, Catelyn calmed herself again and pulled away from Ned to look her husband in the eyes.

“I want to try to break the entail.”

“What?”

“Surely, it can be done. Let’s set Jory to the task. Let Jon have your title and this house if he must, but can’t we give what’s mine to the girls?”

Ned let our a long sigh. “We can’t.”

“But, Ned—“

“Even if it were legally possible, my father’s will is clear. He joined what was yours with what was mine to protect Winterfell, to protect our legacy.”

“A legacy that was meant to be our son’s!”

“If I could bring him back, I would. I want nothing more than to see him here with us, but I still have a duty to my forebears, to this house. I am its steward, my darling, not its owner. All I can do now is prepare Jon to take the task from me eventually.”

Catelyn’s brow furrowed in concern. “What do you mean?”

Ned knew this would be the hardest part. “In my letter, I’ve invited Jon to return to Winterfell . . . permanently.”

“You want him to live _here_?"

“I’ve offered him Stark House in the village, but not just him, his mother and brothers too. It will do him good to reacquaint himself with us and with our life here, and it’ll do _us_ good to have family near, don’t you think?”

Catelyn sighed and turned back to look out the window. “What choice do I have,” she offered, resigned.

Ned turned her back to face him and held both of her hands in his. “I am as heartbroken as you. Perhaps it’s fruitless to tell ourselves that the sadness will relent, but it will.”

Catelyn shook her head. “I don’t want it to. I can’t accept he’s gone, not yet.” After a beat, she added, “This is why we don’t have titles in America.”

Ned couldn’t help but smile at that. It was her pride talking, Ned knew, and despite the grief that prompted the words, he considered them a sign that she would, in fact, not be made less by having lost a child. Her stubbornness was still palpable, and somehow it reassured him.

He kissed her forehead and said, “America was built by younger British sons who had to seek their fortune because their titled brothers left them with nothing, so I should say so.”

Catelyn’s lips quirked up into a small smile that did not reach her eyes. It was as much as she could muster for him. “We should go talk to the girls,” she said.

“We don’t have to today. There’s plenty of time for that.”

Leaning into her husband’s embrace again, Catelyn took a deep breath. “Their lives will never be the same.”

“Neither will Jon’s,” Ned replied. “Nor ours.”

“Then by all means let us delay the inevitable as long as possible.”


	2. The Starks of Bombay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kind of explains the relationship between the Stark families, but the gist is that Ned and Benjen's fathers were first cousins and Benjen's father was the Stark estate agent, which is why they were close despite the wealth difference. (If you're curious, this means that Jon and Sansa share a great-grandfather, which is the same level of relation that Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip have.) So Benjen grew up around Winterfell before going away for uni. He came back to the village to live with his young family for a time before leaving again for London and later India. Jon and Robb knew each other from this time and like Ned and Benjen were close despite being in different social positions. 
> 
> Like on Downton Abbey, where "Downton" was used to refer to both the house and the village, "Winterfell" is the name of the house and estate, and the name of the town. I've tried to stick to names from Game of Thrones for the minor characters and servants, but they won't always play a big role. Jeyne Poole is mentioned, for example, and she'll be an equivalent to Anna if you know Downton. The Baratheons are also mentioned. They'll play a more significant role. The premise and setting is taken from Downton Abbey, and there are several moments and dialogue that I'll steal from it, including in the final scene in this chapter. Ultimately, though, the plot will be somewhat different. 
> 
> Pre-apologies for typos. Hope you enjoy!

**Two months later**

Sansa Stark hated purple almost as much as she hated black. She had loved her brother dearly and would have happily worn both to the exclusion of all other colors for the rest of her life if it meant he could be alive now. She wanted so much to see him again, to hear his voice, to see the annoying way he laughed with his whole body, to watch him and Arya spar with the wooden swords their father had made for the two of them when they were little, watch as Arya, a champion fencer now, repeatedly got the best of him even at practically half his size.

But he was gone. For good. His absence had imbued Sansa with such bitterness that—if it was all the same to the parade of people who’d been coming in and out of the house for the last three months with their overwrought grief and false niceties—all she wanted was to go back to a semblance of normal. Normal meant normal clothes. Black had done nothing to convey her sense of loss. Certainly the purple of half-mourning was not doing it either.

In any case, what did it matter what she wore? She would never not miss her brother. Surely, people understood that. In most other circumstances, Sansa enjoyed dressing up and had a keen understanding of the role of costume for every occasion. A lady at three, she understood and lived by the rules of propriety, indeed, set herself as the guardian of them among her more carefree siblings. Mourning was different, however. Its rituals and colors and their unrelenting acknowledgement of who and what had been lost felt oppressive, like a brick pressing on her heart. Perhaps it was selfish, but all she wanted was to feel like herself again, to be the girl Robb knew and teased mercilessly yet good-naturedly as only a brother could, the girl with the world at her feet.

Sansa was twenty-three years old. She’d done four seasons in London, the belle of every ball. She knew that wouldn’t last forever. She wanted to move on, get married, grow up before the world could move on without her. She wanted what was meant to come next, only now whatever would come next was going to be different.

The question remained: Where would it lead her?

Sansa was sitting at her vanity, awash in these thoughts, having barely moved since Jeyne had finished doing her hair and helping her dress for the day, when the door opened. 

“Is it really that difficult for you to knock?” Sansa said, seeing Arya come in to the room.

“No,” Arya replied, sitting down unceremoniously on Sansa’s bed. “But I’m just going to come in anyway, so why bother?”

Sansa rolled her eyes and finally stood up, walking over to the bed to pick up a letter she’d left there, but not before Arya got an eyeful of it.

“Who is J.B.?”

“None of your business,” Sansa replied, curtly.

“Please,” Arya said with a laugh. “It’s not hard to guess with all your swooning it’s that useless prat Joffrey Baratheon. What does he want?”

Sansa folded the letter and put it back in its envelope, before setting it on her night table. “They are coming again, if you must know.”

“What? Why? They were just here."

“That was weeks ago for the funeral,” Sansa said. “And they’re not staying with us this time. They’ve taken Hacksby Park.”

Arya gasped and threw herself on the bed melodramatically, “Netherfield is let at last!”

Despite her best effort, even Sansa couldn’t keep herself from smiling at her sister’s antics. “For heaven’s sake, Arya.”

“You’re actually worse than Mrs. Bennet.”

“Wanting to have my own house and a husband makes me a normal person.”

Arya watched her sister closely as she walked across the room to sit down in an arm chair and picked up a book on the small table next to it. Sansa opened it, making every effort to suggest she didn’t want the conversation to continue.

Arya stood up, unfazed. “A house and a husband _are_ what normal people want, but that’s not what _you_ want. You want a duchess’s coronet and all the other ridiculous things that go with that title, including the approval of useless people like Cersei Lannister.”

“Was there a reason you came into my room?” Sansa asked, looking up. Her expression annoyed and closed off again.

“I overheard papa say they’re arriving tomorrow,” Arya said with a shrug. “I thought you might like to know.”

“That _who_ is arriving tomorrow?”

Arya crossed her arms impatiently. “You know very well who.”

“Oh right. _Him_.”

“ _Them_. Lyanna, Bran and Rickon are coming too.”

“A full on invasion then.”

“If you’re telling me that the Baratheons are coming, I’d say more Starks are much neededreinforcements.” Arya waited for her sister to respond, but Sansa stared resolutely at her book. “I still don’t understand why mama or you are upset by the succession,” Arya said. “Jon isfamily. That’s the whole point.”

“We haven’t seen Jon Stark in ten years.”

“No we haven’t, but he’s our cousin. He’s as sad about Robb as any of us. They kept in touch. If Robb could have picked anyone in the world to be his heir, it would have been Jon. It’s why papa is so keen to have him here.”

Sansa sighed and went back to sit down on her bed. “It just doesn’t seem fair,” she said quietly. “I still miss Robb, and I don’t want reminders that he’s not coming back.”

Arya sat down on the bed next to her. “I do too. I hate this feeling of not being able to feel . . . _right_ anymore, but it’s always going to be there. Everything in this bloody house is a reminder. Which is why I want to have Jon here, and why I don’t understand why mama wants to pick a useless fight with him instead. Won’t it just make things worse?”

Sansa looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for yet another argument, even though she lacked the strength. In truth, it wasn’t her argument, but she was nothing if not her mother’s daughter. “Why should a distant cousin of her husband’s get all her money? Why shouldn’t _we_ get it? You’re always saying women matter too, so there you have it. You don’t think it’s unfair?”

“Of course, I think it’s unfair. That’s why I support the suffragettes. If women voted, these laws about male primacy wouldn’t exist. Are you saying you’re going to join us?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, but before she could say anything, Arya cut in, “Mama’s fortune was never ours. It was always Robb’s and that never bothered you before, see. So I know it’s not about the principle with you. You’re just worried about having to see Jon, a gentleman who—heaven forbid—actually works for a living.”

“I couldn’t care less about him.”

It was Arya’s turn to roll her eyes. “Right, you have J.B.” Arya stood to leave but stopped when she got to the door. "I don’t think it does mama any good to fight. It won’t bring back Robb. Papa is trying to move on. He loves Jon, and Jon will be good to our family. I’m excited about seeing him. And Bran and Rickon.”

“You barely remember them,” Sansa said.

“I know, but they’re family. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Of course it means something to me, I just—I wish it were under different circumstances, that’s all.”

Arya’s shoulders drooped. Sansa was so good at hiding her emotions, it was sometimes hard for Arya—who never bothered herself with hiding her feelings or opinions—to remember that Sansa felt a great deal. “Me too,” Arya said. “I just want to be able to laugh again. Don’t you think Robb would want that?”

Sansa took a deed breath. “Yes, he would. I’m just trying to be supportive of mama.”

“I know, and I know it seems stupid to believe that everything is going to work out. That’s just what I want to believe right now, because that’s what Robb would say if he were here.”

Arya crossed the room to sit next to Sansa again, but as soon as she did, Sansa stood, apparently not interested in being comforted.

“If Robb were here we wouldn’t be in this situation, and they wouldn’t be coming.”

“I know that,” Arya, replied, her frustration boiling again. “I’m just trying to make the best of this. Stop trying to pick a fight with me for no reason!”

Sansa couldn’t help but be amused by this turnabout. Wasn’t she usually the one making the best of things? Wasn’t she the one always working to keep the peace and ensure everyone’s comfort and Arya the one being argumentative for the mere sake of being so? How had life become so topsy-turvy?

“You’re right,” she said finally. Looking at Arya again, whose small frame belied an outsized personality and an outsized heart. Robb loved them both. He would have wanted them to be a united front. “Tomorrow, you said?”

Arya nodded. “When do the Baratheons get here?”

“The week after next,” Sansa answered.

Arya stood up again, the usual mischievous twinkle in her eye. “I suppose that’s when the fun will really begin.”

* * *

_It hadn’t been Jon’s idea to play cricket. He wasn’t any good at it. Robb had insisted, though. The annual match in the village was around the corner, and he needed the practice. Besides, it wasn’t as if there was some other activity at which Jon could get the best of Robb. Robb was one of those infuriating people who excelled at everything but somehow managed not to make you hate him for it. Jon, at least, could never bring himself to mind. It was enough for Jon to know that he and Robb were close friends, beyond the normal bounds of familial obligation._

_Robb laughed each time he’d hit the ball past Jon’s reach. Jon groaned each time he had to go fetch it._

_This time it had gone beyond the edge of the house, and when Jon ran past it, he stopped short. Around the corner, a few yards away, he could see the girls having a lesson with their governess. They were painting. Although he couldn’t see Arya on the other side of her easel, Sansa was just visible at hers. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was behind her, kissing her hair in such a way that the normally deep red looked brighter, almost golden._

_In that moment, even though she was sitting, she looked taller than Jon remembered. He noticed too that her dress was cinched at the waist. This was also different from what he remembered._

_In that moment, she may have been playing the artist, but she looked like a painting herself. Like the portrait of a princess of the kind that would be hung in a palace’s grand gallery._

_“Jon . . . Jon . . . JON!”_

_Robb’s voice registered in his mind before he reacted to it, so when she turned upon hearing it,she caught him looking at her._

_“Are you playing cricket? Can I play?”_

_Arya’s voice shook both Jon and Sansa from their stares._

_“Don’t be ridiculous, Arya,” Sansa scolded, looking back at Jon with a look that was no less cutting._

_“Let’s stay focused, Lady Arya,” the governess said humorlessly, not bothering to look at the boys._

_“Can’t you find the ball?” Robb asked, now standing next to Jon. “Oh.”_

_“Oh, what?” Jon said, finally turning away from the girls._

_Robb grinned. “Come on. You’re not allowed to look at Sansa like that.”_

_Jon scowled. “I’m not!” He paused, realizing his objection had conceded the point. “Look at her like what?”_

_But Robb had already moved past the moment. He’d noticed the ball only a yard ahead of them and picked it up.“Why don’t I have a go at bowler?” He said casually over his shoulder as he walked back to the back lawn, where they’d been playing. Jon looked back, unsure as to whether Sansa had heard the exchange with Robb. She wasn’t looking at him, but she had schooled her expression into a slight frown. And she looked like she was blushing._

_Had her cheeks been that rosy a minute ago? He suddenly couldn’t remember._

_“JON!”_

_He followed Robb, who was laughing at him again. As always._

_Jon didn’t mind. As always._

_In fact, Jon smiled, which wasn’t a thing Jon did often. He was blushing too._

* * *

“There’s nothing here.” Rickon turned back to the rest of his family, sitting in the car with him. “I’ve barely seen a dozen people since I stepped off the train.”

“Heavens, have I kept you boys away so long you don’t know your own home?” His mother, Lyanna, said with a laugh. “This is just what it’s like in the country.”

Rickon looked out the window of the motor skeptically. “I remember being told this would be an adventure,” he said. "I’m not sure I agree with that view of things.”

“That’s how mother gets you to do things,” Bran said, sitting next to Rickon. “Haven’t you figured that out?”

“Anything new is an adventure by definition,” Lyanna put in.

“This is hardly new,” Bran said.

“It is to me,” Rickon replied.

“You’ve been here before,” Bran said. “You used to live here. It’s where you’re from, you twit.”

“I don’t remember it, which means it feels like new. Don’t pretend it’s all familiar to you. You’re not much older than me.”

“I remember everything,” Bran said with more finality than one would think was possible for an 18-year-old.

“Here we are, ma’am,” the chauffeur Ned had sent to pick them up from the train station called out from the front seat.

“Thank you,” Lyanna said, happy to move her two youngest away from their usual back-and-forth. Bran and Rickon loved one another. She had no doubt of that, but brotherly love often expressed itself as antagonization, for reasons this particular mother had stopped trying to determine long ago.

Lyanna was less concerned about Bran and Rickon than she was about her oldest, who had sat quietly next to her not just the entire motor ride from the train station, but the train ride as well. Through their entire voyage back to England from India, in fact, he’d barely said anything. It was starting to worry her.

Jon was quiet. He had always been. Brooding was, perhaps, a better word for it, but Lyanna didn’t like it so much because it suggested an entrenched melancholy. Jon’s quiet was thoughtful, just like Benjen had been. He wasn’t an unhappy person by nature. Lately, though, it couldn’t be helped. Jon been heartbroken by the loss of his cousin. Despite the number of years they’d been apart, they’d remained as close as brothers. Months later, it remained on his mind—that he was only here but for Robb’s absence. But Lyanna didn’t want Jon entering into this new life on a sad note. She had never expected such a turn of events for him. Her own beginnings being rather humble by comparison, she knew the waters would be rough, but she was confident he could navigate them with the right outlook.

“Are you all right, darling?” She asked quietly as they all stepped out of the motor. Bran and Rickon walked into the yard to get a closer look, while she and Jon stayed together, admiring it from the street.

Jon nodded. “I still don’t see why I couldn’t refuse it,” he said.

Lyanna sighed. _Certainly not the right outlook_ , she thought. “There’s no mechanism for your to do so. You will inherit the estate. Of course, you can throw it away with your habit. That’s up to you, but would that be a way to treat Robb’s memory when he meant so much to you?”

Jon looked down and shook his head. After a moment, he looked back up to the house they were to live in now. It was slightly larger than the one they had lived in when he was a boy and Winterfell village was still their home, before their move to London and eventually to the other side of the world. A life, it was clear, only he and his mother remembered. This structure was handsome and obviously well-kept. “What do you think?” he asked.

Lyanna looked the house over, remembering what it had felt to come to Winterfell for the first time, with Benjen, remembering what it had been like to be introduced to his aristocratic relatives, far richer and higher in station than any people she had ever met before.

It had seemed odd to her that they were so close, seeing as she knew Benjen only as the son of a land agent, Brandon Stark, when they’d met. Only later did Benjen reveal that the job had been given to his father by a cousin, Rickard, who happened to be an earl and the owner of the vast estate Brandon managed. Rickard’s only child, Eddard—Ned, as loved ones including Benjen referred to him—was Benjen’s age. The two grew up together, separated only by the vast wealth that distinguished one over the other, but they loved each other, and seeing potential in Benjen, Rickard provided for Benjen’s education beyond what might have been possible otherwise. It was what he owed his success with the government to, and why Bran and Rickon were called Bran and Rickon. 

Through her marriage, Lyanna, herself the daughter of a doctor, learned not to feel like an outsider but the feeling was not one that could be shaken easily. She could see it in her eldest son now. Too many years had passed, he had grown too much, for him to step back into this world with any sort of familiarity.

“I remember when your father first brought me here,” she said. “I told him it looked like a Jane Austen novel.”

“I think Pemberly is meant to be a bit grander than this,” Jon replied with a sardonic smile, which made Lyanna smile in turn.

“If we’re talking equivalencies, then Winterfell is Pemberly. This is the Bennet house.”

“That would make me that horrible cousin, Mr. Collins.”

Lyanna laughed, putting her hand on his shoulder before heading down the path toward the now open door, at which a thin, gray-haired man in butler’s livery stood. “Oh, my dear Jon,” she said. “I’m afraid you’re Elizabeth.”

“Mrs. Stark, I presume?”

Lyanna nodded, approaching the man coming from the door of the house.

“I’m Reed. Your butler and valet.”

“Valet?” Jon asked, frowning. “Mr. Reed—“

But before Jon could go on, his mother cleared her throat and cut in, “May I introduce ourselves? I am Mrs. Stark. These are my sons.” She turned and cleared her throat again, and Bran and Rickon, hearing her, came over to stand next to Jon. “Misters Jon, Brandon, and Rickon Stark,” she finished with a smile.

Reed smiled back, a bit warily. “I’ll just give the chauffeur a hand with the cases.”

“I can—“ Jon moved to step around his mother, but she quickly took his arm to stop him.

“Thank you, Reed,” she said.

Jon sighed. “Mother, I don’t want to be waited on hand and foot,” he said quietly, following her into the house. “I think I’ve made that much clear. I don’t want this to change me. I don’t want _them_ to change me.”

“Why would they want to?” Lyanna asked, turning to him once the four of them had reached the house’s small parlor.

“Lord and Lady Stark have made the unwelcome discovery that after the loss of their beloved son, his heir is a middle-class lawyer and son of a middle-class British attaché.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes. “ _Upper_ middle class. Honestly, Jon, we’re hardly paupers. Your father grew up in the shadow of Winterfell, so did you for a time. You are not so young as your brothers so I know _you_ remember. Lord Stark is glad you’re here. He said as much when we saw him in London last week.”

“If Jon is Lord Stark’s heir, does that make Bran Jon’s heir,” Rickon asked.

“Until he has a son of his own, yes,” Lyanna responded.

“That means you’ll have to marry soon,” Rickon said, looking at Jon. After a beat, his eyes got wide, and he added with a laugh, “Will you have to marry one of their daughters?”

“Lady Sansa Stark.”

All four of them turned at once to see Reed standing at the entry to the parlor, having just announced the unexpected guest.

Lady Sansa Stark was wearing riding clothes, her statuesque frame seeming to fill the now very quiet room.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting,” she said.

“Lady Sansa!” Lyanna said, warmly, though keenly aware that Rickon’s indelicate comment had no doubt been heard. “Look at how you’ve grown!”

“Cousin Sansa, please,” she said with a smile. One that Jon—rendered speechless by the sight of her—thought seemed practiced, but nonetheless genuine. “Mama has sent me down to welcome you and to ask you to dine with us tonight. Unless you’re too tired.”

“We would be delighted,” Lyanna said.

“Good. Come at eight.” Sansa took a quick look about the room, wanting to get a look at Jon, but not particularly eager to make eye contact with him. He looked older than she might have expected, on account of his beard, but other than that his face had changed little. The mop of curly hair she remembered was gone—at least, it was much tamed from when she saw it last. He was handsome in a way she did not expect.

Sansa turned to go.

“Won’t you stay and have some tea?” Lyanna asked.

“Oh, I couldn’t impose when you’ve only just arrived,” Sansa said, turning again to go.

“Walk her out, will you, Jon?” Lyanna said, motioning for him to follow her.

Sansa didn’t bother to wait for him, so they were outside when he caught up to her. “You’ll have to forgive Rickon, he tends to speak without thinking, especially among family. He was only joking.”

“It _is_ a funny situation, isn’t it?” she replied, not looking at him and not suggesting in her posture or tone that she found anything funny, least of all what Rickon had said.

Jon felt rather helpless.

When they got to the lane where the groom who had ridden with Sansa was standing holding their horses, she finally turned to face Jon. Sansa opened her mouth as if to say something but then didn’t. Jon couldn’t help but notice that her expression softened somewhat now that she was looking him in the eye.

“I’m very sorry,” he said quietly.

“Whatever for?”

Jon swallowed. “Robb . . . you having to stand me being here.”

Unsure how to respond, she said simply, “We’ll see you tonight,” before mounting her horse.

He watched her as she did so, and when she turned to him one last time, he said, “It’s good to see you, Sansa.”

She dug her heels into her horse and was gone.

That she hadn't bothered to return the sentiment wasn’t lost on him.


	3. A Chauffeur, a Fencer and a Hope for a Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry arrives on the scene, the Stark families meet and Catelyn gets an idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect to wait as long to post this chapter, but it turned out longer than I expected. This includes the first meeting of Gendry and Arya. I've never written them so I'm not super confident about my characterization of them, but as their relationship will be very important to this story, I will do my best to do them justice. Lastly, Ned probably seems different from how we know him, but that is a result of the setting and what the setting requires of the character. Hope you enjoy!

In time, Gendry Waters and Jon Stark would laugh about the fact that they arrived in Winterfell Village on the same train, each encountered a different young woman whose name was Stark within the hour and each managed to annoy her _and_ fall in love in practically the same breath.

On the day, however, they hadn’t yet met. When Gendry Waters stepped off the train at Winterfell Village, in fact, he was doing so for the first time and he was not looking for anything more than a day’s entertainment and eventually, a place to sleep for the night. In a week’s time, he’d be starting work as the second chauffeur for Lord Stark of Winterfell, and his family, a post to which he’d been recommended by the friend of his father who’d taken him on as an apprentice a few years earlier. Gendry’s father was a smith, but he’d realized early in his son’s adolescence that there wasn’t much of a future in the trade for the bright boy and so sought to push him into something else more promising. Gendry had taken to the care of motors rather easily. He was curious and hardworking both by nature and upbringing, and although he wasn’t particularly ambitious, he was nonetheless eager to prove that he was independent and self-sufficient and in need of no one’s help to make something of himself. Having never been this far north before, he’d decided to arrive in town early to get the lay of the land, and learn where all the places the well-to-do family would need and want to go were located.

Holding his small suitcase and in no particular hurry, Gendry walked from the station toward the town square. The station’s steward had directed him there when Gendry asked where he might find a public house. No sooner had he stepped off the platform, a group of four women accosted him inquiring as to his position on women’s suffrage. Gendry did not consider himself a political person but had been witness in his work in service to the fact that women of his class worked just as much—if not harder—than men and he was not so traditional as to think that such work did not merit a measure of a say in how the world should run. He took their pamphlets more for the sake of getting around them and on his way than anything else, but even so, he put them in his jacket pocket with earnest promises that he’d read them when he found a room and a quiet moment.

Eventually, nearing what activity suggested was the center of village, Gendry decided to take a more roundabout walk to see more of the outer edges of the place. He came upon a park, more of a well-maintained clearing amid a copse of small trees. The park was quiet and empty except for a pair of figures a ways off the lane on which Gendry stood.

They were fencing. That much was easy to tell. Both were wearing the typical uniform of white trousers and jacket buttoned on the side with protective masks that obscured their faces. Both were slim and clearly agile, and although neither was particularly tall by average standards, one was rather shorter than the other. 

The longer Gendry watched the more their interplay looked like dancing. Presumably neither of the fencers knew what the other was going to do, but their movements had the balanced air of choreography. He had lost track of how long he’d been standing there, suitcase still in hand, when the taller of the two fencers finally got the better of the other and they finally stopped as the winner’s foil bent into a gentle arc, pushed against the chest protector of the losing fencer, who swatted it away with an irritated grunt.

It didn’t register with Gendry that she’d thrown off her mask—indeed, that the small fencer was a _she_ —until her voice rang in his ears, snapping him out of his momentarily bewilderment.

It was a girl. _Well, a woman._ A young woman. Younger than Gendry, though not by terribly much that he could tell. She was saying something, but he couldn’t hear for staring.

“I said, ‘What are you looking at!?!”

“Oh, sorry, I . . .” Gendry shook his head to get his bearings.

“Can’t you speak? This isn’t a stage show. Move along or state your business.”

“I was just watching,” Gendry finally replied.

She had a small, round face, gray eyes and eyebrows that he was sure he could spend a lifetime trying to describe accurately and failing. A non-traditional beauty made more so by the non-traditional attire she was currently wearing. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight bun, but a few pieces had fallen out and stuck to the sides of her face with sweat. “I didn’t mean to offend,” he added. “You’re very good."

“You obviously don’t know anything about fencing. I just lost.”

“You _are_ very good,” the other fencer said with a laugh. Gendry finally turned to look at him. He had removed his mask now too. He was an older man with sharp features and thick hair, curly and graying. “I got the best of you because you still favor your left side when you get tired.” Extending a hand to Gendry, he said, “Syrio Forel, at your service.”

“Gendry Waters,” Gendry replied.

“And this is—“

“Never mind,” she said with a roll of her eyes, turning away and removing her gloves.

“My student,” Syrio said. “Do you have an interest in the art of fencing?”

“Not specifically. Only my father’s a smith, and he used to repair antique swords and sabres, mostly for collectors, not anyone who actually made use of them. I’ve always liked seeing them in action.”

“I’m afraid these are not of any value,” Syrio said, lifting his foil up for Gendry to inspect. The handle wasn’t particularly ornate, but it was well made.

He handed it back and quietly asked, “What’s her name?”

“The girl has no name,” she said, having heard him. She’d collected all her things and was now standing in front of him again holding a large bag on her shoulder.

“That seems unlikely,” Gendry replied with a smirk.

“Same time, same place tomorrow?” she asked Syrio, ignoring Gendry.

“We don’t have to come here, you know,” he replied. “The ground is less even. An ankle injury would set back your training.”

“At home, I’ll be forced to wear the skirt. I _hate_ the skirt. It’s ridiculous.”

“Same time, same place then. But your father will want to see your progress before the week is out.”

She turned to go, saying over her shoulder, “I’ll tell him where to find us.”

They watched her until she turned down a nearby street and they couldn’t see her anymore.

“Who is she, really?”

Syrio laughed again and began to pack up his own bag. “Save yourself the heartache, boy. Once you learn what her name is, chances are you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

* * *

“You lot are acting like we’re headed to an execution.”

Lyanna could barely suppress her smirk at the sight of her sons looking handsome yet clearly uncomfortable in their evening wear as, later that evening, they rode on the motor Lord Stark had sent to take them to Winterfell for dinner.

“Execution by hanging, and the noose is tight,” Rickon said, tugging on his tie.

Bran, meanwhile, kept shrugging his shoulders as if the perfectly tailored jacket was two sizes too tight.

“For heaven’s sake, darlings, this isn’t the first time you’ve worn tails. I’d prefer that you not behave as if it were, lest we give the wrong impression.”

“What do you mean?” Rickon asked.

“She’s afraid they’ll think we’re not up to snuff,” Bran said.

“Maybe we aren’t,” Rickon said. “I’d rather they know I’m not some toff if it means I won’t have to dress like this all the time.”

“I don’t disagree with that statement,” Jon said, barely audibly, but nevertheless heard by his mother, who glared from the side of her eyes.

“Of all people, you have no choice,” Lyanna said with a sigh. “If making a good impression is of no use or interest, then do it because your father would insist if he were here, and you know that as well as I. He loved this place, as did his father and we shall respect its rituals for them.”

The three brothers looked at one another. They would not, could not contradict their mother on this point.

Noticing that the car had slowed as it passed through the castle’s gates, Jon looked out the window.

There it was.

In all it’s grandness and glory, Winterfell Castle was an imposing sight. Jon hadn’t forgotten that, but the fact that he had not beheld it with his own eyes for a decade meant it gave him pause now.

He thought, again, of his late father. Benjen would have been as bewildered as his son if he’d found himself in the situation Jon was in now, but while Jon was growing up in Winterfell Village and later when he visited, before the family’s departure to India, Benjen had expressed pride in his association with the estate. That pride came not from his distant relation to the Starks who bore titles, but from his father’s work. Ned’s father may have been the owner, but Benjen’s father had been the keeper. The estate was as much a reflection of his work as anyone else’s. For his grandfather, then, Jon would be willing to take the mantle he was now being handed.

The motor stopped smoothly at the door and was still running when a footman appeared to open the door. Jon stepped out first and turned to help his mother do the same. Once all four were out, they followed the footman into the entrance hall.

Jon felt his mother squeeze his arm as they walked in. The first show of nerves she had allowed herself since they had arrived in the village. And she could be forgiven for the nerves, for once they had stepped all the way into the main hall, they could see that the family and their full coterie of servants was lined up to mark their arrival.

A sight that welcomed and imposed in equal measure to such a degree that Jon wasn’t sure where to look. Mercifully, Ned stepped up to him with a warm smile before the moment’s awkwardness became too overwhelming.

“Welcome to Winterfell,” he said, shaking Jon’s hand.

“Thank you, Lord Stark,” he said. Turning he gestured for his family to come forward. “My mother, Mrs. Stark, and my brothers, Brandon and Rickon,” he said more for the benefit of everyone else in the room than Ned’s.

“I know it’s been a long journey,” Ned said, “but we’re glad to have you home.”

Lyanna stepped forward to greet Ned, then turned toward Catelyn, who was standing behind him. “Lady Stark,” she said quietly, offering a small curtsey. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I know it’s been a few months now, but such a tragedy is not one from which a mother recovers.”

Catelyn’s posture was tense, but she nodded in acknowledgement. “Thank you, Mrs. Stark.”

“Please call me Lyanna.”

“Call me Catelyn, then. I hope you found the house comfortable.”

“It’s wonderful, thank you,” Lyanna said. She turned to step away again, but Catelyn touched her arm gently before she did so.

“I’m sorry Benjen is not here with us either.”

Lyanna smiled, grateful for this acknowledgement of her own loss, one still keenly felt. “I find some comfort in the idea that in whatever place God means to come next they have each other.”

Catelyn smiled. It was small, but genuine. Seeing it, Ned felt some relief. “Let’s go sit until dinner is served.”

The families proceeded to the drawing room, where Lewin, the butler, served aperitifs.

“I can hardly believe you’re the same Bran and Rickon who left us,” Ned said as he stood next to Jon and the young men near the hearth. “Lyanna, you and Benjen left with boys and you’ve brought back men.”

“Your own daughters have grown into such lovely young women,” Lyanna said as she and Catelyn sipped their drinks on the sofa. 

Catelyn’s smile widened. “Haven’t they?”

“But don’t call Arya lovely if you want her to speak with you,” Sansa said, seated in the chair across from her mother, while Arya stood with the men at the hearth.

“So you haven’t changed all that much,” Jon said to Arya good-naturedly.

Arya rolled her eyes, though there was mirth and certainly no contradiction in them. “I am who I am and I make no apologies.”

“None whatsoever,” Catelyn said.

“When we left you were barely past 10 years old,” Jon said. “I don’t think you’ve grown two inches. Shouldn’t you be taller?” Jon asked

“Shouldn’t _you_?”’

Jon laughed and Arya laughed with him. “Fair enough.”

“How is your archery?” He asked. “You were quite good when you were young, better than me and Robb, if I remember it right.”

“That didn’t take much, did it?” she teased.

“Arya’s sport is fencing now,” Ned said, with clear pride. “She’s even better at that.”

“Is it?” Rickon asked, immediately interested.

“Maybe she’ll teach you,” Jon said to his brother.

“Rickon has had a go of it at fencing but he’s rubbish,” Bran said.

“You’ll have to show us,” Jon said, turning back to Arya.

As the conversation went on, Sansa watched Arya and Jon closely, surprised at their easy rapport. Arya wasn’t one for manners or grace in awkward social situations, usually, but then she’d been less circumspect about their cousin’s arrival than Sansa had been. Watching them, Sansa wished that Arya had been sent to welcome them that afternoon, that she could have that first moment over again.

Jon’s shoulders relaxed slightly, unaware of Sansa’s scrutiny. The sides of his eyes crinkled when he smiled in a becoming way. It was true that he wasn’t particularly tall, not compared with Ned, whose height Sansa had inherited, or some of the young men Sansa had danced with. Even Bran stood taller and Rickon nearly so. Sansa thought that if she and Jon stood next to one another they might measure the same height. But it wasn’t as if he didn’t have presence. Despite his slim frame his shoulders looked strong.

His look was not what Sansa usually favored—fair hair and eyes—but she couldn’t deny that he had a nice look about him and the finery that he was in now only served to magnify this. She shook the thought away, though. Someone else would be coming for her. Jon Stark would be nothing to her in time.

“Are you all right darling?” Catelyn asked quietly, startling Sansa, who suddenly felt slightly embarrassed at having been caught staring at him like that.

“Fine,” she replied quickly.

Before Catelyn could say anything else, Lewin called them into the dining room and Sansa stood quickly to avoid further inquiry by her mother, which naturally only confirmed to Catelyn that there was something to inquire about.

Once everyone was seated in the dining room, Ned addressed Jon again. "Do you think you'll enjoy village life? It will be very quiet after life in Bombay.”

“It will be a change, no doubt, but with Bran and Rickon both starting university soon, I think mother was keen to come back,” Jon said.

“I was,” Lyanna said. “India was a marvelous place, but not one we meant to stay in forever.”

One of the footmen serving began to make his way around the table, and when he stopped next to Jon, said, “I will hold it steady and you can help yourself, sir.”

Jon looked immediately annoyed. “Yes, I know. Thank you.” The young man looked barely older than Rickon and had no reason to assume Jon hadn’t eaten in a formal dining room before, that he had to be given instruction on how to do so. It made Jon wonder about other assumptions being made among the staff about who he was and about his family’s provenance.

Noticing, Sansa said, airily, “You’ll soon get used to the way things are done here.”

Jon’s annoyed expression shifted from the footman to Sansa. “Do I seem so foreign to you that you have to make such assurances?” he responded.

“So what will you do with your time?” Arya asked, not giving Sansa a chance to answer and escalate their now obviously mutual annoyance at each other further.

“If ever you want to ride, just let our groom know and he'll sort it out for you,” Ned said.

“Jon doesn't ride,” Sansa spoke up again. “If memory serves.”

“I ride,” he said.

“But you don’t like it,” Rickon said. “Hunting either.”

Bran couldn’t help but chuckle and his younger brother’s need to cut in, but Lyanna did so before Rickon could say more. “I’m afraid embassy life required entertaining dignitaries to such a degree that such things felt like chores even to the most patient of people,” she said.

“So you don’t hunt?” Sansa asked, still only looking at Jon, though the words came out as more of a statement.

“No, I don't hunt,” Jon answered, feeling for some reason as if this was a test and he was failing. “Do _you_?”

“Occasionally,” Sansa replied. “I suppose you're more interested in books than country sport.”

“I probably am. You'll tell me that's rather unhealthy.”

“Not unhealthy. Just unusual...among our kind of people.”

“That’s enough, Sansa,” Catelyn said quietly.

“Well, once you get more involved in the running of the estate that will take some of your leisure time, in any case,” Ned said, hoping to move the conversation into different, safer territory.

“I’ve actually taken a position with a partnership in Winter Town,” Jon answered. “I’m meant to start next week.”

“You have a job?” Ned asked surprised.

“I’m afraid I’ll go mad if I can’t work,” Jon said. “If it’s my time you’re worried about, I’ll manage. There are plenty of hours in the day.”

“We’ll discuss it later,” Ned said, now also wondering if Jon’s adjustment into his new life wouldn’t be as smooth as he anticipated.

* * *

Despite what might have seemed as an inauspicious start, dinner went on without further incident, but there was an unease in the air that Ned, Catelyn and Lyanna all recognized. Their children did too, but made no mention of it. At the end of the night, just before it was time for Lyanna and her sons to head home, Lyanna pulled Catelyn aside, eager to address it, if obliquely, and hoping to lay the groundwork for an honest relationship between them.

“I know that this life you lead often requires a measure of artifice, but I can’t pretend to be more than I am,” Lyanna told her more aristocratic counterpart, “and I certainly don’t want my children—Jon, in particular—to be judged for not being prepared for a life they never thought would be theirs.”

Catelyn watched she closely as she spoke. “Go on."

Lyanna paused for a moment, then looked Catelyn in the eye, “I also won’t pretend I can’t see that you wish we weren’t here. I suppose that if it means our lost loved ones were here, I wish that too. Nevertheless, life has turned out the way it is and the British, well, we carry on.”

Catelyn stiffened slightly, wondering if this reference to what she wasn’t— _British_ — was meant as a slight. Noticing, Lyanna reassured her. “All I mean is that I want Jon to do well here, and to help him, I need _your_ help. I won’t ever be an enemy to you, Catelyn. I hope you know that.”

Catelyn let out a long breath but said nothing before Lyanna walked away, and minutes later the families said their goodbyes. Lyanna’s words weighed heavily on her given what Lyanna didn’t know about Catelyn’s efforts to break the entail that promised her fortune to Jon.

Later, when Ned came into their bedroom from his dressing room, it was still on her mind.

“Have you spoken with Cassel about the entail?” she asked quietly, putting the book she’d been reading on her lap.

Ned climbed into bed next to her with a sigh. “It’s a fruitless endeavor.”

“I know you think so, but does he? Have you even mentioned it to him?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, and that was his reply.”

“I doubt he’s so much as looked at the papers again,” Cately said, shaking her head. “He thinks me a silly woman—a silly American woman at that. I’ll find my own lawyer, if I must. It’s still my money.”

“Why are you so against Jon?”

The words gave Catelyn pause. “I’m not against him. I just want my daughters taken care of.”

“They will be,” Ned insisted. “I’m still here, and I know if I weren’t, Jon would do the right thing.”

“Honestly, after Sansa’s snobbery this evening I do wonder.”

“She knows her etiquette and is perhaps too harsh an enforcer of it at times, but there are rules to this kind of life and he’ll have to learn them.”

Catelyn had meant her comment about Sansa as a joke, but she saw that Ned had not seen Sansa’s comments regarding their higher position as sharply as she had. If anything, Ned seemed legitimately concerned about Jon fitting in. “Are you not happy he means to work?” she asked.

“Not in so far as it means he doesn’t understand what his role is here. I’m surprised he sought a job out so quickly.”

“I rather admire that about him,” Catelyn said with a rueful smile.

Ned laughed. “So you are an American.”

Catelyn sighed. “I don’t know him well now, but he was a nice boy. I don’t mean him harm.”

“I know,” Ned replied. “We should encourage affection between him and Sansa, not just so that he takes care of her and Arya if the time ever comes, but because he’ll need all our support if he’s to be in adequate steward of what he’s being given. She could be of help to him in that regard.”

“I suppose I hadn’t thought of it quite that way.”

Ned's brow furrowed. “What way?”

Catelyn grinned, seeing that Ned was clueless as to what he himself had justimplied.

“The future earl will need a countess eventually, or isn’t that what you meant?”

Ned’s eyes widened in recognition. "Oh, you mean for him to marry.” Ned thought about that for a moment. “It’s an interesting idea, but the one he gets along with is Arya. I suppose it’s not a terrible match for either of them.”

Catelyn laughed out loud this time. “Well, no, not _terrible_ , but hardly what I was suggesting.”

“Surely, you don’t mean Sansa.”

“Of course, I mean Sansa. Arya gets along so well with Jon because she sees him as a brother. She’s missed having someone to banter about with like she used to with Robb. That’s all. And in any case do you really see her having an interest in being Lady Stark?”

“Do you think her not up to it?”

“If etiquette and an understanding of how to run a house and estate like ours properly are what Jon needs the most help and support with, Arya is not the one, being hardly able to mind her own manners. I love my daughter _dearly_ , but this would be asking her to be other than who she is.”

Ned sighed. “And she’d be the first to tell us.”

Catelyn nodded knowingly.

“But tonight . . . Sansa didn’t seem to like Jon. Do you really think, she would welcome the idea any better?”

Catelyn thought about the way she caught Sansa watching Jon in the drawing room. “She does have other possibilities so perhaps you’re right,” she said after a moment’s reflection, “but the way she was looking at him tonight I do wonder . . .”

Ned was curious. “How would you say she was looking at him?”

Catelyn chuckled and picked up her book up to continue reading. “Not the way a girl looks at her brother.”

* * *

The following morning, Catelyn called on Stark House and spoke frankly with Lyanna, telling her that Lyanna’s words the previous evening had been understood and, upon reflection, appreciated.

Jon _would_ need help, and perhaps, if they played their cards right, Sansa could be the one to provide it. Lyanna had been surprised at this suggestion and rather skeptical that either Jon or Sansa would be interested. Like Catelyn, she understood that women were complicated, so it was not Sansa’s dismissal of Jon the previous evening that worried her, so much as their compatibility. Would they have the patience to get to know one another in the way their mothers knew it took to build a lasting marriage? Lyanna couldn’t say for sure. Still, she liked the idea and believed it had promise. Catelyn pointed out that Jon would not be without competition. She told Lyanna of the Baratheon family and their impending visit to the county, one long enough that they thought it necessary to take a house. Robert, Duke of Storm’s End, had served with Ned in the Boer Wars. Given that, Catelyn knew the family well, but she did not trust them, especially not Robert’s wife Cersei. Weighing the possibility of Sansa becoming a duchess and joining a family Catelyn wasn’t sure would love Sansa as she deserved against taking Catelyn’s own title and remaining at Winterfell, Catelyn knew immediately what her preference would be. By the end of the conversation—candid, but warm—the women were confident of their trust in each other.

As she was leaving Stark house, Catelyn saw Jon walking up the lane. She smiled as he approached, glad for an opportunity to also speak with him alone.

His suit was simple but well-made. His dark hair and gray eyes gave him what Catelyn called the Stark look, which was apparent in Ned and Arya, but not her other children, who favored her.

“Good morning, Lady Stark,” he said, when he reached her, lifting up his cap in greeting. “Were you coming into the house?”

“I was just leaving,” she replied. “I’ve had a lovely visit with your mother.”

“Well, then I won’t keep you.”

“Actually, Jon, I wonder if I may ask that you walk me back to Winterfell. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Of course,” Jon answered, somewhat baffled as to what it could be that she would want from him.

“Your mother does not expect you back does she?”

“No,” he said. “Luncheon has always been rather informal with us.”

Catelyn sensed a bit of awkwardness in his words, as if he knew that this wasn’t the right way of doing things. She realized that the polish that came only from life among the British peerage would be something he would have to acquire, just like she had to once. She felt, for the first time, a kinship with him, this boy who would step into her son’s shoes.

“Well, you may join _us_ for luncheon if you’d like, but I won’t hold you to it, having surprised you like this.”

Jon only nodded and fell into step with her as she began walking.

“Do you like being back?" she asked.

“It is hard to separate the return from the circumstances that prompted it, but I do like it here. I have many fond memories of childhood in Winterfell."

“Robb loved you very much,” she said, quietly, almost to herself. “And it is on that knowledge that I am in trusting you with the following task. You are a solicitor, so I presume you have an understanding of how wills work, yes?”

“I do,” Jon said, starting to realize where the conversation was going.

“My late father-in-law’s will, I want you to look at it and tell me if there is an avenue by which Sansa, as mine and Ned’s oldest living child, may have an inheritance.”

“Lord Stark and I spoke about this when we met in London, as it happens,” Jon said.

This surprised her. “Did you? I wouldn’t have thought he’d bring it up.”

Jon offered an embarrassed smile. “I brought it up. It seemed an odd thing that I have precedence over your own children.”

Catelyn rolled her eyes. “Odd only for a sensible person, so I’m glad to know that is what you are.”

Jon chuckled. “He said that there was an entail tying your money to the estate. Are you asking me to try to break it?”

“Well, not exactly. I just want to know if he’s thrown in the towel prematurely. He’sso concerned with the succession, that I’m afraid he doesn’t want to even ask the question. His lawyer is not going to do it on my behalf, and I don’t trust him not to simply tell me it’s hopeless without actually making sure that it is.”

She stopped and Jon turned to face her. Catelyn sighed. “I know that it may seem selfish to you—“

But Jon interrupted her before she could say more. “Lady Stark, you don’t have to explain yourself to me, and you certainly don’t have to explain why you want to do what you will with your own money. The last thing I want is to be in this position at Sansa’s expense, and if you’re saying nobody has ensured yet that this is the only course, I’ll look to it myself.”

Catelyn breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you."

“Do you really trust me with the task, given that I am to inherit the estate if there is no recourse?”

“Like I said, Robb would have trusted you with the question, therefore so will I.”

Jon smiled. “I can think of no greater mark on my character.”

They turned to continue walking. “Speaking of Sansa,” Catelyn said, “I'm sorry she was rather sharp last night.”

“She was always rather particular about who she counted as her close friends. I did not make the cut before and I doubt I will now.” Jon thought for a moment before adding, "I don't blame her. It’s wise for a girl in her position to be careful about the people she lets in.”

“And what would you say if the entail was set aside in her favor?”

“I should try to accept it with as good a grace as I could muster.”

They continued walking in silence. By the time they made it to the house, Catelyn was resolved. Jon might not have swept her daughter of her feet at first sight, but if there was hope—and she believed there was—Catelyn would do all she could to help him.


	4. A figure with figures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon starts at his job and gets a warning. Arya meets the new chauffeur, and Sansa goes into the lions' den.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A whole bunch more supporting characters are introduced/mentioned, and we get our first look at Cersei and Joffrey, though they are not mentioned by name. This chapter sets up the intrigue that Cersei will try to pull Sansa into and explains why. Also, it gets into Arya's head for the first time. I am not a confident Gendrya writer, but I'm trying to make their interaction feel authentic. Lastly, the term "buccaneer" in this context refers to an American heiress who marries into the British upper class. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!

It took little time for Lyanna, Jon, Bran and Rickon to settle comfortably into the routine of their new life in Winterfell village and into the lives of Ned and his family. Within days of their arrival, Ned began making plans with Jon to begin teaching him about the running of the estate, which Jon assured Ned would be easily balanced with his other obligations, despite Ned’s own assurances that Jon need not have additional employment elsewhere. After that first day, Jon saw himself fighting battles on many fronts when it came to being Ned’s new heir, but his job was not one he intended to give up.

And in fact, a week to the day of their arrival and the first dinner the families shared together, Jon rode an old used bicycle he’d purchased to the train station, where he boarded for a short ride to Winter Town, the neighboring town where the partnership he’d be joining had its offices.

Winter Town was larger than Winterfell Village, but still rather small at the end of the day, at least compared with where Jon had spent his adulthood to this point. Bombay was teeming with people, London too, so the change was significant, but Jon found that he enjoyed the quiet. The train ride gave him space to think, and he had much on his mind these days. He’d already begun investigating the question of the Stark legacy. There was not much he could do about the law as it applied to the title, but the money was a great deal more complicated and he now found himself among people who found discussion of money distasteful, a mark of those who always had plenty of it. Never mind the fact that Ned and Cat seemed to be on opposite ends of the question as to where the fortune that was mostly Cat’s at the start of their marriage should land. Certainly, their marriage, which seemed otherwise a happy one, was not something Jon wanted to be thrown in the middle of. If nothing else, he wanted to do right by Sansa and Arya, whom he knew likely had their own opinions about the whole thing.

When he’d last seen them, Arya was still very much a child, rambunctious, unruly and unkempt in a way that put her right at home with the boys, playing sports and having no patience for the delicate pastimes her mother insisted were more appropriate for little girls. Her character and inclinations had not changed much, but he saw a polish and maturity to her now of the kind that only came when you’d grown up enough to know your own mind with certainty.

Sansa was another matter altogether. Like Arya, she’d been a girl before he left, but one whose beauty had begun to blossom such that even the still green boy Jon was back then could see it and couldn’t help but be taken by it. He’d thought about her more than once in the many years away. Jon had imagined how much more beautiful she had become. Upon seeing her again, he saw that even his generous imagination had fallen well short and felt a measure of alarm at how much she affected him, having thoroughly believed that whatever schoolboy fancy he might have felt once had passed. Sansa’s cool attitude toward him was neither a surprise nor a disappointment. In truth, Jon had always known that she would be out of his reach, so he wanted no reason to give his fool heart anything that resembled hope. The less he thought about her, the better. Resolving not to do so again—at least in the next hour—Jon stepped off the train in Winter Town.

Upon arriving at Seaworth & Varys, Jon was greeted by one of the stewards, who escorted him to the office of Sir Davos Seaworth, where his partner, Conleth Varys, was also sitting. Davos was an older man of thinning hair and a thick beard to make up for it. He’d known Benjen previously and when Jon wrote to him to establish contact upon the family’s return from India, it was he who invited Jon to join the partnership. To say that he wasn’t a gentleman was to say that he didn't come from an old family, but Sir Davos amassed enough of both fortune and respectability to be well-liked among people in society who valued character as much as parentage, and he didn't much bother with the opinions of those who didn’t.

Like Sir Davos, Varys was a self-made man and a quick judge of character. Unlike him, Varys was willing to ally himself with those who might be considered morally suspect if he was able to glean some benefit, usually information. He prided himself on being in the know and still somehow managed to succeed in a profession in which discretion was paramount. He’d known little about Jon when Sir Davos suggested bringing him on, but Varys knew enough about the Starks, their friends and their fortunes to know that having him close would be useful.

“It’s good to finally have you here,” Sir Davos said to Jon, as Jon shook both his and Varys’ hands. “Have you settled into your new home?”

“As much as can be expected, I suppose, after only a week.”

“Well, take as much time as you need to get your bearings here. We’re a well-oiled machine, but fresh perspectives are always important. Feel free to talk to either of us if you have questions or thoughts on the work.”

“Of course, Sir Davos, thank you,” Jon replied.

“I can’t imagine what you must be feeling,” Varys said. “We were all shocked to hear about Robb Stark’s death, and of course, the vultures started circling immediately. There’s much talk about you.”

Jon’s brow furrowed, not sure what to make of Varys, whom he was meeting for the first time. He’d corresponded only with Sir Davos and he’d met with him in person in London shortly before arriving in Winterfell. “I can’t imagine why,” he said, hoping not to prolong any discussion about himself or what had brought him here.

“Can’t you?” Varys retorted, an enigmatic smile forming on his lips.

“I’m afraid Varys here likes to keep his ear on the local gossip,” Sir Davos said with a half-hearted roll of his eyes.

“I collect information,” Varys corrected. “A useful exercise in our line of work, and surely, Jon, you can understand why you’re an object of curiosity. A young man with a well-known name in these parts who nobody knows, and heir to both a British title and an American fortune—unless the buccaneer has managed to secure it for her own.”

Jon wondered momentarily how Varys could know of Cat’s intentions to make Sansa an heiress, but he figured it was likely she’d made inquiries to find a lawyer for the task he offered to take on. He was glad it would be up to him if the ones she had reached out to were so indiscreet that Varys knew this much.

After a moment, Jon said, “I wouldn’t presume to bother you with family business.”

“The Starks were always a tight-knit lot, tight-knit and tight lipped.”

Jon didn’t answer this and Varys chuckled. “If it were me, I’d want to make doubly sure what was mine was really mine,” he said standing up. “Interest in the young lady will double if it is known the figure comes with figures.”

Jon stood abruptly eager to cut off this line of talk, but before he said anything, Sir Davos spoke up. “Come off it, Varys, you’re worse than my mother-in-law.”

Jon took Varys’ offered hand firmly in his and said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, but I’ll thank you for not talking that way about my cousin.”

“Apologies, then, if you took offense,” Varys said. “It’s advice I’d offer anyone at our firm.”

“What advice is that, exactly?”

“Look after yours because others certainly are.”

With that, he left.

Sir Davis sighed audibly. “Don’t mind him too much. He knows and does his business very well, so he can’t help but dabble in everyone else’s. He’s a good person to have on our side.”

“So that he’s not working for the other?” Jon asked.

Sir Davos laughed. “Something like that.” After a beat, he added, “You’ll do well here, Jon. We’re lucky to have you, and in time you will understand how lucky Lord and Lady Stark and their daughters areto have you, too.”

“I appreciate your confidence me,” Jon said, and he was grateful for that, though it was also disconcerting to know that there were gossips—or worse—that had apparently set his family in their crosshairs. Ned was not a foolish man. Neither was Cat easily taken, but they had both lost a son and could be forgiven for not seeing a circling vulture, as Varys had put it, amid their likely still lingering grief.

And indeed, as Jon and Sir Davos continued to talk that morning, Varys had proceeded to his office, sat down at his desk and pulled out a piece of his personal stationery. The note was not particularly long. Jon hadn’t given him much to report. When he was done, a steward took the note, sealed in an envelope addressed to Her Grace Duchess Cersei Lannister Baratheon, currently of Hacksby Park.

* * *

Meanwhile, as Jon was settling in elsewhere, Catelyn began making her own plans to involve Lyanna in her various charities and events in the county. On the afternoon of that same day, in fact, Catelyn went into Sansa’s room to remind her daughter of a trip to the grounds on which the annual flower show would be held. Catelyn and the girls would be picking up Lyanna in the motor on the way. Walking into the room, however, Catelyn noted that Sansa was dressed slightly more fancily than usual, and certainly more than necessary for this particular outing.

“That’s quite a dress for looking at the stalls for the flower show,” Catelyn said, approaching Sansa as Sansa looked into her vanity mirror while putting on earrings.

“What are you talking about?” Sansa asked distractedly.

“You and Arya are coming to the village pavilion so we can see the preparations for the flower show. I know I mentioned it.”

Seeing her mother’s reflection on her mirror, Sansa’s shoulders drooped. “Must I?”

“What else could you possibly have to do?”

“I was invited to tea at Hacksby,” Sansa said in a way that Catelyn saw was a poor attempt at disinterest.

“I don’t remember seeing that invitation,” Catelyn said, trying to match Sansa’s casual tone.

“It didn’t come from the Duchess. It was Lady Myrcella. I presumed you need not be troubled with it.”

“Were you going to tell me?”

Sansa sighed, finally turning to her mother with something of a sheepish expression that made Catelyn smile. “Honestly, I don’t know, mama. I have some hope of . . . something. But it feels so premature I’m afraid the bud will die on the vine from overeager pruning. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I just want you to be careful with the Baratheons. Cersei is the kind of mother who likes to be feared by her son’s potential matches.”

“She’s been nothing but kind,” Sansa said with a shrug.

“I know.” _That’s precisely what I’m afraid of._

Sansa sensed her mother’s hesitancy. “Papa and Robert are such good friends. We’ve known them for ages. I’d be a duchess, if I married Joffrey. I’d think you would be more eager for the match than I am.”

“I just want you to be happy, darling. Everything else matters less, if you really think Joffrey would do the job.” Catelyn pursed her lips after she spoke, wishing her words hadn’t come out so plainly skeptical.

“Why wouldn’t he?”

Catelyn wondered whether such a response meant that even Sansa herself was not convinced but didn’t yet realize it. She said nothing more, though, not wanting Sansa to leave in anything but a sunny disposition. Cersei could smell blood.

“So will Arya be subject to the flower show on her own?” Sansa asked, teasingly, turning back around to finish with her jewelry.

“Not exactly. Lyanna is coming with us.”

“Is she? Why?”

“She wants to get to know the village, and I enjoy her company. After all my fretting, I am happy to have her here.”

“Is it wise to involve her so, if you still plan on undoing it?”

“Your father insists it can’t be undone.”

“But you’ll still try.”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I’ve found a lawyer to take it on.”

“Won’t Lyanna and Jon have an opinion about that?”

“They know. Jon is the lawyer.”

Sansa blinked in surprise. “That’s quite a change of tune.”

“I know. I should not have let my grief convince me to oppose them so vehemently before they’d even heard the news. It rather shames me to think about it.”

“It convinced me too, you know,” Sansa said somewhat defensively, feeling rather annoyed at her mother’s change of mind, having been called to defend her and her own loyalty to her brother before.

“I am sorry for that,” Catelyn said. She motioned for Sansa to come sit next to her on the bed. Sansa followed her mother’s lead, wondering what was going to come out of her mouth next. “Despite my own capricious attitude before, I do feel strongly now that you don’t have to dislike Jon.”

Sansa looked down for a moment, unsure what to make of this. Catelyn was not the kind of mother to manipulate her children. Hers was an open hearted kind of parenting, deeply American with nary a stiff upper lip to be found. Sansa could see that Catelyn was trying to tell her something, but she wasn’t sure what or whether she wanted to hear it. With a sigh, she said, “ You disliked the idea of him.”

“Now that he’s here I see no future in it.”

“And if he succeeds?”

“In separating the money from the estate? It means your future will be secured.”

Sansa hadn’t given much thought to what it would actually mean for her mother to get her way on this question and now suddenly faced with it, the prospect alarmed her. “At Winterfell’s expense? I don’t want that!”

“And Jon wants nothing at _your_ expense. Surely, there’s a happy middle ground you can both agree on. I trust he’ll find it and do what’s right.”

“He doesn’t think I’m asking for this, does he?”

“No, I don’t believe so,” Catelyn replied, inwardly pleased that what Jon thought of her mattered to Sansa. “I can assure him of that if you would like.”

Sansa nodded. More quietly, she said, “What’s right would be to secure Winterfell. Its future is more important than any one of us.”

“Your father would be very proud to hear you say that,” Catelyn said, smiling warmly, also proud of her selflessness.

“It’s true. Jon should know that. And anyway, he is the rightful heir. He shouldn’t think that we think he deserves less than Robb.”

“Would you like me to tell him all of that as well?”

Sansa looked into her mother’s eyes. _She is up to something_. Standing up, Sansa said, “Tell him whatever you like, mama.”

“You could also talk to him yourself. It would do you both good. Jon will no doubt get a daily earful from your father on what preserving Winterfell means. He might like having your perspective.”

Sansa glanced at her mother for a moment before looking away and toward her vanity, closing the jewelry box she’d left open and looking for something to give her attention. “I have bigger fish to fry.”

Catelyn sighed. “Do be careful with Joffrey, darling.”

“Don’t worry about me. Worry about having to make Arya hear you tell Lyanna about the flower show alone.”

“Perhaps I’ll appeal to her competitive spirit.”

“Still hoping to take the cup from the Tyrells?”

“Just once in my life I’d like the blooms nurtured by the gardeners of this house recognized, but I’d settle for anyone winning so we don’t have to keep listening to that insufferable braggart Lady Olenna.”

Sansa couldn't help but laugh at this. Arya Stark might be an athlete against her mother’s wishes but in her dislike of losing, she was her mother’s daughter through and through. Because for every year Catelyn Tully had been Lady Stark, the gorgeous winter roses that grew in the Winterfell gardens were never—not once—given their due at the county flower show, to her continuing dismay. The silver chalice given to the winner may well have been engraved with the Tyrell name so often it was given to the old matriarch of the Tyrells of Highgarden, a nearby estate to the south of Winterfell Village.

“Her grandson runs the flower show, and before that it was her nephew. Does it really surprise you that she wins every year?”

“They really ought to put someone else in charge,” Catelyn said, almost petulantly. “If that old bat is so confident about Highgarden’s flowers, she should be willing to make it a real contest.”

“You have to admit Highgarden’s flowers _are_ beautiful,” Sansa said, now grinning at her mother.

“I don’t have to admit anything.”

Sansa laughed again. “Well, enjoy yourself.”

“You, too, darling. But wait, how are you getting there?”

“They’re sending the motor for me.”

Catelyn couldn't help but be surprised. Cersei and her son were so uppity and self-satisfied, and yet, it was as if they were trying to win over Sansa, who—on paper at least—was the one to gain something from the match. But Catelyn said nothing, not wanting to dampen Sansa’s clearly hopeful spirit further.

Finally taking leave of one daughter, Catelyn quickly made her way to the other’s room. Arya was not interested in the flower show—at least when Tyrells wouldn’t be present for her to throw daggers with her eyes to—but she didn’t try to get out of the outing, assuming that she would be able to talk her way into staying at Stark House with Bran and Rickon while Catelyn and Lyanna were out.

With their hats and coats on, the two made their way to the entrance hall, when Catelyn realized she’d forgotten to order the motor. She was about to ring for one of the footmen to run down to the garage, when Arya said it would be faster for her to just walk down there and set off before her mother could argue.

As a child, Arya often sought to escape the clutches of the nanny (and later the governess) to play in the yard that connected the servants hall and what was now the garage. If she was lucky, she’d find the hall boys there, or she’d go into the kitchen to try to persuade the cook’s son to come play with her, a chubby boy only a year older than she was called “Hot Pie”—his first words and the only ones he ever bothered saying until about age four. It was around this time that the “horseless carriage” was brought to the house. The first chauffeur, Sandor Clegane, was a large gruff and humorless man, and both he and the vehicle were novelties to then-six-year-old Arya. He had no patience for children and was constantly telling her to go away, but he’d developed something of a soft spot for her over the years—even if he would never admit it. Once fencing took over her life, late in her adolescence, Arya spent less time there, but she still preferred walking down to the garage herself, rather than calling the motor, whenever she needed Clegane to take her anywhere.

Arya had heard her father mention that a second chauffeur had been hired to help Clegane and eventually take over when he was ready to retire, which surely would happen soon. Arya knew him, though. She knew he hated help and would likely prefer to be put to death than have to give up working.

She’d like to have teased him about that, but he had left early that morning with her father, who’d had to travel to White Harbor for the day. This would be her first look at the new man.

It turned out to be an eyeful.

She saw him from several yards away. Well, she saw his back. Well, mostly. But for his undershirt, it was bare (and well-muscled from what she could see). As she approached, he had pulled off his shirt in annoyance, having apparently gotten something on it. He stomped into the garage, at the end of which there was a large sink. Arya watched from the open entryway as he turned the water on and ran the shirt under it, talking to himself.

“Two bloody days on the job, and I’ve already gone and ruined the livery.”

She stepped into the garage with a smirk, and the clack of her heels finally made him realize he wasn't alone.

“I think we can manage to scrounge up another,” she said.

She’d been looking around the garage when she spoke, so when her eyes finally landed on him, he’d already recognized her voice.

Arya stepped back.

“It’s you!” he said.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, in genuine surprise, as if it wasn’t obvious who he was.

“I work here! What are _you_ doing here?” But the answer dawned on him before she could offer it. “Bloody hell, you’re—“ Gendry stopped short, realizing he’d both cursed in front of his employer’s daughter and in a state of undress that would surely get him sacked on the spot if anyone else walked in just then. “I’m sorry, milady, I . . . “ he started looking around, looking for something to put over himself, quickly picking up the green livery jacket and trying not to feel foolish but knowing he surely looked it as he did its many buttons up in front of her. “What can I do, my lady?”

Arya, meanwhile, couldn’t help but laugh. “You can please not call me, ‘my lady.’”

“I have to!”

“I won’t answer to it. My mother and sister are ladies, but not me.”

“You’re a lady as far as I’m concerned, and I’m very concerned with keeping this job, thank you very much.”

“Then you should take better care of your shirts.”

“I was putting away the motor oil and my hand slipped. I’m still rather getting used to the way Mr. Clegane does things, which is not the proper way. He leaves everything everywhere. It’s a right mess in here. I can’t believe he can work like this. I’m surprised neither of the engines has fallen apart.”

Arya looked around. She had never really paid much attention to the place, but it was very much a controlled chaos, much like Clegane himself. When her eyes landed back on him, he was picking lint off one of his sleeves. Noticing that she was watching again, he straightened up. 

“You haven’t said what you need, my lady.”

“I just told you not to call me that.”

“Then what am I supposed to call you? You didn’t even want to give me your name the other day.”

Arya couldn’t help but laugh. She shouldn’t have fun with him like this. Sansa would have called it disrespectful—“It’s hard enough for them to do their jobs without having to deal with your capricious moods, _Arya!_ ” She could hear Sansa’s voice in her head now, and the way she enunciated her name like she meant it as an insult. But that’s what made the sisters different. Sansa was of the world into which she was born in every way. Arya wasn’t. She liked being around the staff. She understood, now that she was older, that they needed and deserved space to do their work, but she still sometimes wished that that she could just be who she wanted to be around them, and not bother with the titles and deference. She wanted to be seen as who she was. And just as she had just told the new chauffeur, she was not a lady.

She realized, in his acknowledgement of how they had met the week prior, that in their first interaction, she had just been a girl to him. That pleased her. She would have resolved not to tease him any more in light of that, but looking at his face again, exasperated and— _bloody hell_ —handsome, she knew keeping such a resolution would be impossible.

“My name is Arya,” she said finally.

She could tell he tried to school his reaction, but a smirk couldn’t help but form on his face as he said, “Mr. Clegane warned me about you.”

She crossed her arms, “And what exactly did he say?”

“That you were trouble, which is what your fencing master said too, come to think of it.”

“You look like you don’t believe them.”

He shrugged. “How much trouble could you possibly be? You’re just a girl.”

Arya smiled, oddly endeared by his underestimation of her. She _was_ trouble. “So what’s _your_ name?”

“Gendry Waters, at your service.”

“Well, Gendry Waters, get the motor running because my mother’s waiting by the door of the house.”

His eyes widened in alarm. “Why didn’t you say so!?”

He scrambled to finish cleaning himself up and grabbed his cap before he started the engine. Arya climbed into the motor and sat down. They pulled away from the garage without a word. He showed the nerves of someone wanting to make a good impression, and on this, Arya would not get in his way. When they finally made it to the front of the house, Arya apologized to her mother for having taken so long, putting the blame in herself for any delay. How could she possibly get to know Gendry Waters, after all, if he got fired on her account? And she wanted to get to know him.

* * *

Myrcella Baratheon was standing outside Hacksby Park when Sansa stepped out of the motor that had been sent for her, and the two girls greeted each other warmly, having gotten to know and like each other the previous season in London, when Myrcella had made her debut. She gave Sansa a tour of the house, but Sansa saw none of the rest of the family while she was there. Odd since the entire time, she’d felt like she was being watched.

Indeed, as she and Myrcella walked around the house’s gardens outside, two sets of eyes had been watching them from one of the upstairs windows. Sansa didn’t notice them or hear their conversation.

“So is she getting the money or not?” a petulant voice asked.

“I couldn’t find out for sure,” was the reply. The second voice a female’s and spoken as if it had a perpetual edge to it.

“Mother, what good is all your scheming if you can’t find anything out! You’re useless!”

“I’ll find out!”

“So what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Make sure she doesn’t marry someone else. It should be easy, she’s besotted with you and an idiot. We need that money for Casterly Rock.”

“I don’t care about that worthless—“

“Casterly Rock has been in our family for a century! I won’t see it fall to ruin!”

“And if she doesn’t come with the money?”

“Then play with her if you want and throw her away. We’ll just find another heiress."


	5. The Looming Dinner Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon tells his mother what Catelyn has tasked him with. Arya has to get a new dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! I didn't mean to let this one lag for so long, but I got an idea for another fic that wouldn't leave my head so I took a brief break from this one to write "Easy Target." That one is now complete, so I'm back on this one. Not much development in terms of plot in this short-ish chapter, but a bit of flirting for the Gendrya side of things. Next chapter will finally bring the Baratheons to Winterfell, so there will be plenty of action and finally more Jonsa scenes. Thank you for everyone who has read so far. Let me know what you think! Enjoy!

It was a quiet evening in Stark House about a week after Sansa’s first visit to Hacksby Park when Lyanna stepped into the parlor holding a small paper in her hand. Bran and Rickon were playing Gin Rummy, while Jon was sitting in the corner reading.

“I’ve had a note from Lady Stark,” she said. “She asks if we can dine on Saturday.”

“What’s the occasion?” Bran asked, not looking up from his cards.

“They don’t need an occasion,” Rickon said. “They held a veritable feast for us, and we’re just us.”

“You don’t think we merit a special occasion?” Lyanna asked with a smile.

“Not ten courses’ worth,” Rickon said with a shrug. “I’d have been happy with a good stew.”

“Yours is a delicate palate,” Jon deadpanned, from where he was sitting, making Bran laugh.

“I like what I like. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, darling,” Lyanna cut in, “but to answer the original question, their friends the Baratheons are visiting the county for a time, and the Starks want to offer a proper welcome.” Looking at Jon, she added, “She doesn’t say as much here, but I imagine Lord Stark would like to introduce you as his heir to some of the people in their social circle.”

“Must I inherit his friends, as well?” Jon asked, pursing his lips in distaste.Socializing like this was of no interest to him.

“No, but you are my son, and as such, you will mind your manners when Lord Stark asks as much of you.”

Jon sighed, but said nothing.

“Who are they, anyway,” Bran asked.

Lyanna looked back down to the note. “The Duke and Duchess Robert and Cersei Baratheon, and their three children. Joffrey is Jon’s age, and Myrcella between Sansa and Arya. Not sure about the young one, but likely near the two of you.”

“And Joffrey is to be flung at Sansa, I suppose,” Bran said.

“Don’t be crass,” Jon snapped.

Lyanna smiled at Jon’s immediately negative reaction to the notion of Sansa being romantically paired with someone.

“Isn’t that to be expected, though,” Bran said. “Any unmarried future duke or something or other invited into Winterfell is surely there for match-making purposes.”

Rickon laughed. “Are you Jane Austen all of a sudden?”

“Bran's not entirely wrong,” Lyanna said. “Sansa is out, and quite beautiful. Her mother’s fortune may not be hers, but surely her settlement won’t be ungenerous.”

“A dowry, you mean?” Rickon asked. “But I thought Jon was getting all their money."

“When Lord Stark passes,” Jon said, “Decades from now, let’s all hope. And anyway, it’s not for _me_. It’s meant for the upkeep of Winterfell.”

“Lord and Lady Stark will leave a portion for the girls, which they may take into their marriages,” Lyanna said. “They will want to see their daughters taken care of, but that’s no different from any other parents, even those of us without money. You boys _will_ marry, and give me plenty of grandchildren if I have a thing to say about it.”

“Do you hear that, Jon?” Rickon asked. “The match-making is going to include you, eventually.”

“Not any time soon.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes. “Well, I only came in to tell you all about Saturday. It’ll be the tails again, so if you must complain, do so after I leave the room.”

She did so but didn’t notice that Jon had followed her out until she was was at the bottom of stairs, turning to go back up to her room.

“Mother,” he said quietly.

“Yes, darling?”

“I haven’t mentioned this before although it’s been a few days, but Lady Stark asked me to review the entail. I haven’t gotten my hands on all the papers yet from Mr. Cassel, the family's lawyer, but I intend to have a good look at it.”

“Oh? What does that mean?”

“She wants me to see if Sansa can have the inheritance.”

“But without that, you couldn't afford the upkeep of the house on your own. You’d get the title and Winterfell only to have to sell them.”

“I wouldn’t sell Winterfell. I’d just give it to her. All of it should be—she’s the eldest child, and anyway, Arya doesn’t want it. Sansa loves Winterfell. It’s her home. It should be hers.”

Lyanna knew her son to be honor-bound, conscientious and a gentleman through and through, but the seriousness with which Jon seemed to be approaching this task still surprised her. “Is that what you want?” she asked.

Jon looked down. “I don’t want to let down Lord Stark or father’s or grandfather’s memory, but . . . I don’t want this to be an open question, and it still feels that way. If Lady Stark wants me to make sure, I’ll make sure. If I am to be the heir because there is no other legal recourse, then so be it. But reason says Winterfell should belong to Sansa. If there is a way for that to be legally possible, then it is the right thing, don’t you think?”

Lyanna watched him for a moment. Her intention had not been to make this suggestion so soon, but the moment and the conviction with which he defended the rights of his cousin changed her mind. Finally, she said, “There is already a way for that to be legally possible.”

Her words confused him. “What are you talking about?”

“I mean just that. There is a way for Sansa to be Lady of Winterfell without you having to do any maneuvering—well, _legal_ maneuvering, anyway.”

Jon’s brow furrowed as he tried to figure out what she meant, and as Lyanna tilted her head with her smile, suddenly, her meaning was clear. He laughed and looked away, rather embarrassed by the fact that he could feel his cheeks warm at the idea she was suggesting. “Mother, I am the last person Sansa Stark wants to marry.”

“Well, you seem rather determined to give her what you believe is hers, and so I am telling you there is a way.”

“I want to do right by her, that is _all_.”

“And who is to say that’s not precisely what you would be doing if you married her?”

“This is not why I told you this.”

Lyanna laughed and put her hand on her son’s shoulder. “I know, darling. And rest assured that no matter what happens, I trust you to make the right decision and will abide by what you decide. Being a true heiress would help Sansa in the marriage department, but as a mother, I must say I wouldn’t be interested in any potential matches attracted by the fortune. I suspect Lady Stark feels the same, despite what she might have asked you to do.”

Jon nodded and stay rooted where he stood long after his mother had gone all the way up the stairs.

_I am the last person Sansa Stark wants to marry._

He shook his head and headed back to the parlor with the perhaps vain hope that his book would not allow the thought currently trying to form in his head.

That he did not wish for that fact to be so painfully true.

* * *

That very afternoon, as tea was being served in the library at Winterfell. another mother was preparing a child for having to wear appropriate attire for the very same dinner party.

“Arya, I’ve made an appointment for you at the dressmaker tomorrow so you can have something new for Saturday,” Catelyn said as she stirred her tea.

Sansa who was sitting next to her sister snickered at the way Arya shifted uncomfortably.

“Must I?” Arya asked, not caring that her words sounded like a childish whine.

“You haven’t had a new dress in months. Robert is a duke and a dear friend of your father’s. The least we can do is dress for the occasion.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “I sincerely doubt he will look up from his cup long enough to notice what I’m wearing.”

“We’ll refrain from such talk, thank you very much,” Catelyn said sternly. “You’re lucky your father did not hear that.”

“Father would agree,” Ned said as he came in to join them.

Arya smiled at his words, but the smile did not last long once Ned added, “Both with you and your mother. You’ll do as she asks.”

“Sansa’s the one being paraded around for Joffrey.”

“And I’ll be properly dressed for it,” Sansa replied, mostly to continue to get a rise out of her sister, not because she liked the way Arya described what she was hoping would be a more romantic courtship.

As Ned sat down, he said, “I’ve finally had a ride with the new chauffeur, Waters. Bit of a chatty chap but nice enough.”

“Arya and I rode with him last week,” Catelyn said. “He seemed rather nervous. He’s young, in any case.”

Ned chuckled. “He’s only a year off his apprenticeship but Clegane assured me he knows the job. I think Clegane wanted someone he could mold in his own image.”

Arya snorted. The topic moved to Saturday’s dinner and mercifully away from what Arya would be wearing to it, but her father’s reference to Gendry spurred her. She stood up and moved to set her cup down.

“And where are you going?” Catelyn asked.

“To order the motor for the dressmaker’s,” Arya replied. “Isn’t that what you’d like me to do?”

“Yes,” Catelyn said, “but we can ask one of the footmen to do it.”

Arya shrugged. “I need to stretch my legs. What time?”

“Two o’clock,” Catelyn said with a knowing smile. “Thank you, darling.”

“You’re welcome,” Arya said smiling. Turning on her heel, she headed downstairs through the servants hall, as was her habit, and out into the yard.

Gendry was sitting on a table that he’d set up just outside the garage doors where he was polishing tools.

“My father thinks you’re a chatterbox,” she said without preamble.

Having not heard her approach, her voice startled him and he dropped the wrench he was holding with a loud clang before standing up quickly and setting his arms (partly uncovered again because he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves to his elbows) at his sides.

“What can I do for you, milady?”

Arya answered with a cutting glare, and Gendry couldn’t help but smirk. With a long sigh, Arya sat down on the bench where he’d just been sitting. Seeing that she had no intention of leaving, Gendry got on with his task next to her, but still on his feet.

“Well?” he said as he picked up his polishing cloth again.

“I said my father thinks you talk too much. Might want to rein it in a bit.”

Gendry shrugged. “I know. I can’t help it. I talk when I get nervous. Did he say something bad?”

“Not, particularly. He doesn’t dislike you. Knowing him he probably finds it charming.”

Gendry looked at her from the side of his eyes. “Let me guess. You don’t.”

“Not unless you’ve got something important to say.”

He bit his lip as if wondering something.

“What?”

“What if I do have something important to say? Well, not to _say_ but to show you.”

“The suspense is killing me,” she deadpanned.

Gendry rolled his eyes. “Wait here,” he said, turning around to go into the garage. He went to the very back to the shelf that Sandor had designated as his own. There was a box at the end of it, and Gendry took it down to pull out the literature about suffrage he’d been given the day he arrived in town. He looked at it in his hands knowing that he should probably put it back and forget any thought about a friendship of any kind with the daughter of his employer. It was complete foolishness. But his will—strong and unbeatable against any other foe—was putty against her allure.

Turning around, he was startled once again to find her right behind him.

“So what is it?” she asked, clearly curious.

Looking back down at the papers in his hand, he said, “I, um, I have some pamphlets about the women’s vote. I thought they might interest you.”

“Thank you,” Arya said, sincerely. She took the pamphlets and perused them for a minute, then looked back up at him. Her eyes were open, a smile lit up her face and took his breath away. “I . . . thank you.”

“I know your lot’s not exactly going to go on a hunger strike or anything like that but . . .”

“We _should_.”

He chuckled, not sure what to do or say from this point. Haplessly pointing outside again, Gendry said, “I best get back to it.”

Arya moved from where she’d boxed him in against the shelf so he could walk past her. Following behind him, she asked, “Are you really into this? Do you think women should be allowed to vote?”

“Don’t see why not. Girls who grow up poor know more about work than anyone. You should see how early the scullery maids are up here. At least _they_ should get a vote.”

“But not someone like me?”

Gendry bit his lip, worried he’d offended her. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. And I know there’s little fairness in living like this—an army of people working just to serve the whims of my family. Perhaps you’ll think me stupid, but I know it’s not what I’m meant for.” She watched him as she spoke for his reaction and was endeared by the lack of judgment in his eyes. “I just want to do something that will take me somewhere else.”

“Is that why you fence?”

She nodded. “I want to go to the Olympic Games.”

“Are you serious?”

“You don’t think I can?!” she retorted defensively. 

He laughed in response. “Now, why do you gotta assume I meant that I think you can't? I’m impressed is all.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry. I get defensive because my own family don’t think it possible. My mother lets me fence because she thinks it’s a phase I’ll grow out of. Father is amused by it and supportive, but I doubt he is much different at the end of the day.”

“He seems like a good man.”

“He is.” Looking back down at her hands, she added. “Though I’d not mention these pamphlets to him if I were you. Not sure how amusing he’d find it if he realized he hired a revolutionary chauffeur.”

“I’m not really a revolutionary.”

“Well, _I_ am,” Arya said. “But despite having said that, I am being forced to have a new dress. You’ll take me to the fitting tomorrow at two o’clock. It's in Winter Town, so I'll be down here at one thirty on the dot.”

“A new dress? That seems very _lady_ like.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “It is. But I hold that I am still not one. At least, I won’t always be a lady.”

Arya turned to go and was several steps away when she heard him behind her.

“I won’t always be chauffeur.”

Clutching the pamphlets to her chest, she grinned the whole way back inside.


	6. Of Sentimentality and Lemon Tarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joffrey tries to get closer to Sansa, and she and Jon share a moment in the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took forever (or felt like it) because after taking over a month to write about 2,000 words (and then pausing for a week for the chaos that is my family's Thanksgiving and another for the recovery) I realized that some other stuff had to happen first, so I basically started over again and wrote this chapter in about three days. 
> 
> The action involves Hot Pie, who in this story will have the given name Alfred, in honor of a character from Downton Abbey who also had culinary aspirations. And finally, some Jonsa interaction!
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Enjoy!

So far as country houses went, Hacksby Park was large but not grand. To its current mistress, everything about the house and its grounds reeked of being built by someone whose intention was to show off wealth rather than position. This frustrated Cersei because in her mind the two were meant to go hand in hand. What business was it of people with no lineage to have money? And why should she—a _Lannister_ —have to go looking for it?

Her surname might be Baratheon through marriage, but her nature and loyalty belonged to her own family, who considered themselves superior to all but the crown of the United Kingdom but who somehow found themselves sitting atop a figurative mine of gold that was now empty and abandoned. Robert had given her a worthy title but nothing else, and now it was up to her to keep everything from caving in on itself.

Holding a letter in her hand, she walked through the long hallway that ended at the doorway to the room her eldest son had chosen for his own. Robert was in the drawing room, having finished dressing for dinner half an hour ago, already half drunk, Myrcella and Tommen likely down there with him and enduring his company in a way Cersei herself never could. 

When she made it to Joffrey’s room, she knocked lightly before going in.

“Your grace,” the valet said, stopping momentarily to bow before continuing to tie Joffrey’s tie.

“What do you want?” was her son’s brusque greeting.

“I have some news.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Finish getting dressed first.”

The valet saw this as his cue to finish and leave, so having done the tie, he took Joffrey’s jacket and held it as he shrugged it on. “Will you be needing anything else, sir?”

“No, get out.”

“Thank you,” Cersei said, nodding at the valet as he passed her on his way out.

Once the door was closed behind him, she looked at Joffrey again. “Jon Stark has been reviewing the papers pertaining to Lord Stark’s estate—not Ned’s papers, his father’s. Specifically, he is reviewing the entail that keeps Catelyn’s money with the estate.”

“So, what does that mean?"

“It means he must not be completely sure he gets to keep it, which means there is a chance Sansa may yet come with her mother’s fortune.”

Joffrey rolled his eyes. “You’re obviously still not sure either.”

“Why would he go to the trouble if he knew with certainty everything was his?”

“So I’m just supposed to cross my fingers and hope for the best?”

“You’re supposed to woo her, make her want to give everything she has to you. If you want to keep Storm’s End and Casterly Rock, you’ll need her fortune or you’ll end up with nothing.”

“This is ridiculous, mother. You expect me to prostrate myself to people who are beneath me. Sansa Stark should be the one begging _me_ to marry her!”

Cersei took a deep breath. She wanted Joffrey to know what was at stake, but if all it did was getting him riled up, that would serve no purpose either.

“Our world has changed. There is no denying it. The likes of Catelyn Tully with their new money have tried to buy what only birth may bestow and more and more fools seem satisfied with these cheap goods. And if that weren’t enough my brothers laid waste to their birthright, pissing away all that your grandfather built. Tyrion with his drinking and Jaime with his ridiculous notions of military glory. But change brings with it opportunity.” Cersei stepped forward and put her hands on her son’s shoulders. “ _Your_ opportunity, darling. The world is at _your_ feet. _You_ can regain the honor of the Lannister name. With your father’s title, my father’s castle and lands, and Sansa’s fortune, you’ll have everything. The world will be at your feet. You don’t have to beg. _You_ never have to beg for anything. Just agree to give the girl what we know she wants.”

“We’re dining with them Saturday, isn’t that enough, or are you saying she wants more."

Cersei smiled at him again, but his expression remained locked in its usual sourness. “Girls like Sansa always want more."

“You better be right about this, mother,” he said finally and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Despite his petulance, Joffrey did as his mother asked, and the next day, the day before the Winterfell dinner party, he showed up there unannounced.

Catelyn and Ned were both absent from the house when he arrived, which was by design. Cersei had gleaned enough from Robert to know Ned would be out and had come to learn enough about the upcoming local flower show to understand its demands on Catelyn schedule. Indeed, Sansa was by herself in the library and taken completely by surprise when he arrived. They had spent some time together during the last season in London, such that many had began to gossip about a potential engagement. Despite the chatter, however, Sansa hadn’t been able to guess at Joffrey’s level of interest in her to this point. The seeming spontaneity of the visit suggested more than she had assumed previously. It was flattering but also made her nervous, shining a light as it did on her own lack of certainty about the match.

He was beautiful, tall and golden. Were she still a girl of sixteen that might have been enough for her to declare herself hopelessly in love. At twenty-three Sansa was not so naive or superficial, but even so, in the moment in which he walked in her guard was down and she couldn’t help but be taken by the sight of him.

“My lord, I’m sorry to report that my father is away, as is my mother. They will both be sorry to hear that you came to call and they were not here to receive you.”

“No matter, Lady Sansa. I came only to see you.”

Sansa couldn’t help but blush at his words. “To what do I owe the honor, my lord.”

“My family is meant to dine here tomorrow, but I cannot help but feel that the occasion will not provide sufficient time for us to be alone.”

Set a bit off-kilter by his directness, Sansa wasn’t sure how to respond. “May I offer some tea? Our cook made some delicious lemon tarts yesterday. I’m sure there are still more in the kitchen. I can have Lewin bring some up.”

“I’d much rather take a walk, if it’s all the same. Unfortunately, my last visit didn’t offer a chance for me to see the grounds here.”

Sansa blinked wondering if he’d forgotten the _truly_ unfortunate nature of his last visit—dear Robb’s funeral—but she reminded herself that the Baratheons were important people. Joffrey had attended many funerals and likely such events were merely a matter of routine to him. Sentimentality was a trait she wished were not so evident in her family and herself.

“Of course, my lord,” she said. “The gardens are at their best in early spring in my view, but remain a wonder to look at no matter the time of year. In fact, the county flower show is—“

“Fine, let’s get on with it,” he said, cutting her off. She couldn’t hide her surprise at his shortness, and recognizing it, he offered his arm to make up for it.

She smiled again and took it.

“My father has always said he admired the grounds here,” he said, as they made their way outside.

“Our family takes great pride in the upkeep of Winterfell. The estate was managed by Starks for generations. My father is actually the first not to have an agent who is also a member of the family as it happens.”

“It’s too bad it will go to someone who won’t understand its value.”

“That isn’t true of Jon,” Sansa replied. “His father grew up here, in the agent’s house in fact. I would say he has a keen understanding.” On saying the words, Sansa realized that she meant them sincerely. Her parents might think her cousin needed her help learning how to be a proper steward of their family’s legacy, but despite their limited interaction since he had returned she was sure he would never need to be convinced of its importance.

“Jon?” Joffrey said, stopping just as they had made it around to the back of the house, where huge french doors opened from the small library into a large flower garden. Beyond it the land sloped downward and on a clear day one could see land for miles, a mix of dense woods to the north and to the east some of the neatly plotted out parcels that made up the estate’s tenant farms.

“My cousin, Mr. Jon Stark. He’s father’s new heir.”

Joffrey’s face looked as if he expected her to say more about him, but she didn’t.

“I imagine Lady Stark is not happy about having to . . . _deal_ with him.”

Sansa understood his meaning immediately but didn’t hesitate in her response. “No, but grief abates . . . _changes_. She still misses Robb dearly, as we all do. I’m sure would appreciate knowing that she has your sympathy if she were here.”

Joffrey hadn’t been offering sympathy over the loss of her son, but rather her fortune, and even though his mother might overstate his intelligence from time to time, he wasn’t so dim that he didn’t see that Sansa had understood him perfectly and chose to redirect his words to where he should have done. She had _disarmed_ him. Joffrey Baratheon was no more considerate than either of his parents, who were not considerate at all, but Sansa had put out so much of her own grace into the moment that it somehow managed to reach him. His lips quirked up in to a smile, the first genuine one that he had offered Sansa.

“Lead the way, my lady.”

Sansa loved nothing more than walking about the gardens and woods around Winterfell in quiet contemplation, and seeming to recognize that her chatter had the potential to annoy him, she proceeded to remain quiet as they made their way around, hoping to have finally landed on a natural commonality. The quiet didn’t last long, however.

Ten or so minutes into their walk, they came upon Arya, Bran, Rickon and Alfred, the boy Arya and others referred to as “Hot Pie,” who had grown up in Winterfell and whom Sansa knew helped his mother in the kitchen. Arya and Bran were sparring with her fencing foils while Rickon and Hot Pie sat and watched, a picnic of bread, cheese and the tarts Sansa had just offered Joffrey at their feet. They were all having a great laugh so far as Sansa could tell. Sansa smiled, not remembering the last time she had heard Arya laugh like this, though it also made her remember Robb, who no doubt would have been out here with them. The pang she felt in recognition of his absence cut deep and she held her breath for a moment, so no tears would follow it.

She thought, then, of Jon. She wondered where he was now and couldn’t help but wish he were there too—despite the presence of her current escort—sure that he would have felt the same pang she had, would have understood her wretched sentimentality without judgment.

Joffrey’s voice took her out of her thoughts. “What’s all this?” Turning to Bran, he asked, “Who are you?”

“May I present our cousins, Brandon and Rickon Stark,” Sansa said, “And, I’m sure you remember my sister, Arya. This is Viscount Joffrey Baratheon. His family are close friends of ours.”

Rickon stood up and stepped forward to offer his hand, but Joffrey made no move to reciprocate and only nodded in acknowledgement. Looking past Rickon to Hot Pie behind him, he said, “And you?”

Hot Pie, who had scrambled to his feet when they approached, bowed his head and said quietly, “Nobody, my lord.”

“It’s all right, Alfred,” Sansa said, gently. “You may return to the servants hall.”

“Apologies, Lady Sansa.” Hot Pie turned to go, but Joffrey called him back.

“Wait. You _work_ here?” Joffrey asked, scrunching his face into an expression of distaste and disbelief.

“In the kitchen, my lord. I help my mother who is cook here.”

To Sansa’s dismay, Rickon spoke up before she could pull Joffrey away and prevent the disaster she could see unfolding. “He made these lemon tarts,” Rickon said. “Try one! They’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted!”

Rickon held one out. Joffrey took it only to throw in on the ground and step on it. “I suppose as the son of a servant, you’d know no better.”

“Our father was an officer in His Majesty’s government,” Bran said.

“Mine is the Duke of Storm’s End, a real gentleman who doesn’t stand for servants who don’t know their place.”

“I can only assume Alfred was only here because Arya insisted he stay,” Sansa said, with a sharp look at Arya that was met only with an eye roll. “Alfred, I’m sorry—“

“Why are you apologizing to him! Get out of here you fat brute!”

“You have no right to boss him around!” Arya yelled back at Joffrey, as Hot Pie turned and practically ran away before anyone could say anything else to him.

“Arya, stop!” Sansa said forcefully, stepping between her sister and Joffrey. “This is precisely why you don’t invite servants to socialize when they’re just trying to get through their work.”

Arya was about to say something back but Bran put his hand on her shoulder. “Let’s just pick things up and go back inside. Jon is bound to be here soon.”

Sansa let out a breath and offered Bran a grateful smile. Turning back to Joffrey, she said, as soothingly as she could manage, “This was not at all the pleasant stroll I had in mind. I would hate for this to be your impression of Winterfell. Perhaps we should follow another path.”

“Or perhaps another day,” he said, offering his arm again. For the benefit of the three they were walking away from, he added, “I have more important things to do than spend time outside playing silly games.”

“Of course, my lord,” Sansa replied.

Once back at the house, Joffrey remained only for as long as it took for his chauffeur to come back around from the servants hall where he had been waiting. He was not as riled up when he left as he had been when they had come upon the group, and even offered an invitation to Hacksby so they could continue their walk in peace and away from "impertinent and uncouth relations.” Under different circumstances, Sansa would have spoken up against anyone talking about her sister and cousins in this way, but she merely nodded, wanting not to prolong the ugly moment further, agreeing to the invitation if not to the insults.

As he left, Sansa felt relief. She thought that the best that she could hope for was that he would not report back to his parents on the afternoon—that what had happened would not result in embarrassment for her parents or a rupture in a friendship that she knew her father still treasured. She supposed that she was meant to hope that the match was not at risk, but she was starting to feel as if the closer she got to Joffrey, the more she saw his true character, the more it felt like she was on a runaway train that she could not stop. As if the fairytale a younger, more naive version of her had believed would come true in her own life—the perfect house and the perfect prince—was not only a trick but a trap. Nevertheless, her parents had done too much to create this possibility for her to throw it all away now. Joffrey was certainly not the first person to lose his temper after being goaded by Arya—Sansa and Robb had both done as much many times. Furthermore, she thought, no one should be judged by a single bad day.

She felt embarrassed by the whole thing, but who was there who could understand?

Ultimately, there was only one thing Sansa could do to make herself feel better. Eager to avoid Arya, Bran and Rickon, after Joffrey left, Sansa took the back stairs to the servants hall, not stopping until she was at the doorway into the kitchen, where Nan, Hot Pie and the kitchen maids were busy preparing the food that would be taken up for tea.He stopped short on seeing her.

“Lady Sansa!” Nan said with a smile. “What brings you down here to us?”

“I was wondering if I could speak to Alfred.”

Rolling her eyes, Nan gestured to him to come forward, “What’s he done now?”

“He’s not in trouble,” Sansa said, shaking her head.

“That would be a first, milady.”

Hot Pie approached, and he and Sansa moved to a quiet corner of the busy room. “Lady Sansa, I—“

“I’m sorry for the position you were put in this afternoon,” she cut in. “Lady Arya should be better about respecting your work and your time—I don't say that to put you in your place, only to acknowledge that she’s a hard person to say no to, even for me.”

Hot Pie laughed. “I’ll say, but she didn’t force me. I should have known not to stay.”

Sansa looked down for a second. “I also want to apologize for what my guest called you.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Hot Pie said with a shrug.

“You shouldn’t be. Everyone deserves to be treated with respect.”

“Same goes for you, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa looked up again, surprised at his words, though not angrily so.

“You deserve a good man. I’m not saying that gentleman is not, just that . . . you should marry someone nice.”

Sansa smiled. “Thank you, Alfred. Nice ones are rather hard to find.” She bit her lip, then asked, “By any chance is there . . .”

Hot Pie lifted his hand, and on it there was a napkin with small lemon tart, as if he’d produced it out of thin air. Her smile turned into a grin.

It had been Sansa’s plan to go back to her room and enjoy her tart in peace and quiet—etiquette be damned—but such was her focus on getting there quickly that when she made it back upstairs and rounded the corner into the main hall, she ran into what felt in the moment to be an immovable column and dropped the tart, which broke into several gooey pieces on the floor.

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, God! I’m sorry!”

Sansa looked up into Jon’s eyes, only inches from her own. Getting her bearings, she realized that his hands were on her arms, holding her up after running into her. Once he was sure she had her footing he let go and put some distance between them. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“No, _I’m_ sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” she replied. Looking down and noticing her broken tart, she felt like crying.

She didn’t, but Jon noticed her dismay. Looking down too, he said, “Oh, my.”

“I should call a maid to clean this up,” she said.

“What is it?”

“It’s a lemon tart—or it was,” she said, bending down.

“No, let me. It was my fault.” He picked up the napkin and salvaged as much as of the tart as he could. “I think some of it is still edible if you don’t mind that it was on the floor. It’s not as if we ever know what happens to food when it’s in the kitchen.” Looking up, he cleared his throat, somewhat embarrassed by his suggestion. “You probably do mind.”

Sansa sighed. “I can always ask Hot Pie to make more.”

“Hot _who_?”

Sansa laughed. “Oh, um, Hot Pie—his name is Alfred. He’s the son of the cook, and something of a baker himself. I honestly don’t know the provenance of the nickname and would _never_ call him that to his face but . . . well, it fits.” Watching Jon’s expression—rather hard to decipher given that its natural state always seemed to Sansa like abject sadness—Sansa bit her lip. “I’m sorry, I’m probably boring you. You were on your way somewhere?”

“Honestly? Learning that there is an employee here whose name is Hot Pie is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me all day. Not that writing wills is a particularly high bar to clear.”

Sansa smiled, and Jon, positively sure that he looked as idiotic as he felt in her presence, smiled back. The corners of his lips went down slightly, instead of up, when he smiled, but this time Sansa had no doubt what his expression meant.

Looking down at the broken pieces of tart in his hand, she said, “Do you want to try it?”

Jon put a small piece in his mouth and grimaced slightly.

Sansa’s eyes widened. “Don’t you dare tell me you don’t love it!”

“It’s . . . sweet.”

Sansa took a piece for her own and closed her eyes, letting out a little moan as she savored it. “It’s perfect. Sweet _and_ sour.”

“Like life.”

Sansa opened her eyes again, and Jon was looking back at her. His face back to its usual state. “Yes,” she said quietly.

Awkwardness filled the space between them all of a sudden as if they both now remembered that they had barely spoken since his family had arrived and didn’t get on all that well.

“I should, um, ring for a maid.”

Jon nodded looking down. “Do you want the rest?” When Sansa hesitated he added, “I won’t tell anyone.”

Sansa smiled again and took the offered crumbs. “Thank you, Jon.”

He moved aside for her to walk around him. As she passed, he said, “Do you know where Arya and my brothers are?”

Just minutes ago, Sansa had worried what Joffrey would report to his parents about what had happened outside and how it would reflect on her parents, but she had already forgotten she did so. Thinking of what Arya, Bran and Rickon would report to Jon about Joffrey, however, Sansa now felt something closer to panic. “They were outside a bit ago, but I heard them say they were coming in. I’d check the library.”

“Thank you.” He turned to go.

“Jon?”

He turned toward her again. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry for not being more welcoming when you arrived.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I don’t want you to think me a snob—I suppose I am one a lot of the time.”

“You’re not.”

“How can you be so quick to contradict me? You’ve been gone a long time. I was definitely a snob when I was a little girl.”

Jon chuckled thinking of that little girl. “Following rules doesn’t make you a snob.”

“What about being friends with people who are snobs?”

“I would bet you’re a good influence on them.”

“Why would you make that bet?”

“Robb always said you were the kindest person he knew. I believe him.”

Sansa sighed and smiled. “He was a sentimental fool.”

Jon smiled back. “If he was, then so am I.”

With that, he turned and walked away so he didn’t hear when Sansa said to herself. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering about "Viscount Joffrey," that's a title for the son of a duke, which is what Robert is in this story. I'm not an expert on titles, though, so that's only as accurate as a brief internet search suggested it was.


	7. Just be yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Baratheons come to dinner.
> 
> Jon and Sansa come to an agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear lord, writing this chapter was like labor, which is to say long, painful. Now it's time to send this baby out into the world. This chapter takes place entirely on the evening of the dinner party, and it's all "upstairs" characters, so it doesn't feature Gendry. I promise he will be back next time, though, and will feature regularly after that. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and commented so far. I hope you continue to enjoy this and continue to let me know what you think!
> 
> Happy New Year!

When the night of the dinner party finally arrived, Jon, Lyanna, Bran and Rickon arrived at Winterfell early, on Ned’s request, to be there with the family to welcome the Baratheons. Sansa had not yet come down when the four walked into the drawing room to wait for the remainder of the evening’s guests, so Jon was mid-conversation with Arya when she walked into the room.

Mid-sentence, in fact.

Sansa was wearing a light green dress with black and gold embellishments and sheer sleeves that ended where her evening gloves began. Her hair was artfully pulled back from her face but even so it seemed to shine and was the perfect complement to the color of the dress. Jon had a mind to believe that there was nothing Sansa could wear would diminish her beauty, but this particular frock accentuated it in every way possible.

She was _radiant_.

Their eyes met momentarily as she made her way into the room, but she quickly looked away again, smiling as she greeted his mother.

He thought of their encounter the day before when they had knocked into each other and her face was so sweetly crestfallen when she saw that she had dropped her pastry on the floor. It was something Jon remembered from their childhood: Sansa had a sweet tooth and a predilection for things that were lemon flavored. Her expression in that moment and her admission in the minutes that followed—that she didn’t want him to think her a snob—were his first indications since his return that she was willing to drop her mask of niceties around him. As he had told Cat, he understood why she wore it, but internally, Jon wished Sansa wouldn’t always feel that she needed to keep him at arms length, where she kepteveryone else.

This was not merely because he couldn't seem to stop thinking of her _a certain way_ , but because he wanted her to see him as someone she could trust. As a girl, Sansa had been proper to a fault, but also eager to be liked and rather a romantic. That wouldn't have been his word for it then— _romantic_ —but there was much that he hadn’t understood yet when he was young about himself, about girls in general and how to relate to them. Years on, perhaps Sansa thought it unwise to be as open about her notions of romance as she had been in the past, but in so far as they remained part of who she was, Jon wanted her to know that at least around him, she could be herself.

Pulling himself out of his reverie, Jon finally turned back to Arya. He frowned at the knowing smirk on her face. “What?” he asked looking at the whiskey in his hand.

“You tell me,” she replied. “You’re the one who was talking and then went to fairyland in your mind for a minute."

“I lost my train of thought.”

“You don’t say!”

Jon looked away, embarrassed, but found he didn’t have anywhere else to look where Sansa didn’t cross his line of sight.

“You might want to make it less obvious,” Arya said.

Jon looked back over to Arya, and although she was still teasing him, the expression on her face was not unkind.

“Make what less obvious?”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Now you are just being intentionally daft, which is unbecoming.”

Jon chuckled and took a drink. “So who are the people coming tonight?”

“Trying to get a leg up on the competition?”

“There is no competition, Arya.”

“There shouldn’t be because Joffrey’s awful _. Awful_. You should have seen him the other day.”

“Was he the one Rickon was talking about? The one who thought our father was a servant here?”

Arya nodded. “He thinks everyone is a servant. _His_ servant.”

Jon felt a sudden discomfort and an equally sudden and surprising sense of recognition.

_What about being friends with people who are snobs?_

“I didn’t realize he was here to . . . court Sansa,” he said quietly.

“I can’t see what she likes about him—well, other than his titles,” Arya responded with a roll of her eyes.

Jon sighed. “I suppose there are a number of reasons, not all of them so cynical. He is the son of a friend of you father’s, isn't he? Just because you are not driven by the desire to please your parents, doesn’t mean Sansa isn’t.”

Arya laughed. “True enough, though I don’t know that mama is all that eager for the match to be honest. Just because families go way back doesn’t mean they like each other, especially in the peerage. Joffrey may seem like a good idea for Sansa, but I don’t think it holds up to much scrutiny.”

“Well, if there’s to be competition, it won’t be me, also for a number of reasons not the least of which is the fact she wouldn’t want me as a competitor.”

Arya considered Jon’s words. Then, she turned to watch her sister for a long moment. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Sansa has never been the best judge of what’s good for her.”

“Are you?” Jon asked with a smirk.

“The best judge? Of course! I’m the best everything!” They laughed again, and then Arya added, “She is too concerned with the way things ought to be, the so-called rightness of things. It's the one way she takes after father. Tonight’s a perfect example. We’re supposed to call Robert Baratheon ‘your grace,’ but you’ll see as soon as you meet him that he’s actually rather a boor. His wife, on the other hand, is refined in every possible way, but just asgraceless as he is, though in an entirely different sense.”

“I think I’ll just stay in the corner and not speak, if your parents don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” Catelyn said, taking both Jon and Arya by surprise. “If that’s your plan, Jon, I’ll send you to the servants hall.”

Jon felt momentarily bewildered. “Lady Stark—“

“Jon, I’m kidding,” she said with a smile. “I’m American. I couldn’t get through nights like this without a sense of humor. As a matter of fact, I came over because I’d like for you to stand next to Ned and me when we greet the Baratheons.”

Jon wasn’t sure what to say. He had known from the moment he learned of Robb’s death that he was taking his dear cousin's rightful place, but this made that reality quite literal. Catelyn saw the hesitation in his eyes and patted his arm to ease his nerves.

“You will be all right,” she said.

Jon nodded, still not quite able to form words. Thankfully, seconds later Lewin came to the door of the drawing room to announce that the motor was approaching. Everyone followed him into the entrance hall and lined up much in the same way that they had when it was Jon, Lyanna, Bran and Rickon coming to dinner for the first time. This time, though, Jon stood between Catelyn and Sansa, and his mother and brothers were next to Arya.

He held his hands in fists at his sides, unsure of what to do with them or himself. It wasn’t that he was nervous about the people he was about to meet, but ratherthe sudden realization that he might really not be up to this. Being among Ned and his wife and daughters was one thing. They were Jon's family. Rich and upper-class, but family all the same. Meeting strangers was different—these people had known Robb and likely would be able to see all the ways in which Jon would fall short in comparison. They would see that he was not born into this life, and there was little Jon could do about that. He didn't particularly care what others thought, but standing as he was now among Ned, Catelyn, Sansa and Arya, he didn’t want to let them down.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he practically jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Sansa had noticed his strained posture and expression and sought to calm him, but when he turned toward her, the words got lost in her mouth. They hadn’t stood this close to each other since she had run into him and she felt herself getting momentarily lost in his stare.

“You had, um—there was something on you,” she said meekly, in a whisper, grabbing at non-existent fuzz on his back and giving it a wipe for good measure. “There . . . it’s gone.” Jon didn’t say anything, but she noticed that his hands had relaxed. “Just making sure you make a good first impression.”

“I doubt anyone looking this way will bother to look at me,” he whispered back.

Sansa blinked, unsure as to how to respond. His meaning clearly was that she was the one anyone would want to look at. She smiled in spite of herself once he was facing forward again, not because of what he had said, so much as how he had said it. His clear intention was explanation not flattery. He was so matter-of-fact, almost exasperated, like he was pointing out that it was raining outside and she was going out without an umbrella.

Jon Stark lacked finesse, perhaps, but not sincerity.

_Nice ones are rather hard to find._

“Joffrey hasn’t even walked in, and you’re already blushing. For heaven’s sake, Sansa.”

Sansa turned to Arya and replied, “I’m not blushing!”

“How many people do you think he’ll yell at this time?”

“Girls!”

Both Arya and Sansa straightened up on hearing their mother. Catelyn was standing on Jon’s other side, which meant that he likely had also heard their exchange. Sansa saw that he was staring resolutely forward, which to Sansa only served as confirmation. She felt mortified and felt the redness in her cheeks deepen.

(Despite her denial to Arya, Sansa had been well aware of the fact she was blushing. Initially at least, it was not for any reason that had to do with Joffrey Baratheon.)

Minutes later, the guests finally arrived.

Robert Baratheon was a portly man, but not a soft one. He had distinguished himself in the army and had enjoyed the spoils a bit too much since those times. He greeted Ned warmly and, clearly not one to observe the niceties of such an occasion as this particular evening, suggested that they head into the drawing room for a drink without bothering to greet anyone else. Thus, initial introductions were brief, which suited Jon just fine. But when he moved to follow Ned and Robert, he felt Sansa’s hand on his arm again. She was holding him back so that he did not proceed before Robert’s wife, Cersei, who had stopped to give proper greeting to Catelyn. It was a subtle movement, but one that did not escape Cersei’s notice. She gave Jon a once over but moved on without saying a word to him, which again suited Jon just fine. Catelyn fell into step with her but the women didn’t speak to each other as they walked until Catelyn gestured to Lyanna to introduce her.

The one that Jon assumed was Joffrey followed behind his mother, tall and fair-haired like Cersei and wearing a similar expression of condescension and distaste. He didn’t so much as look at Sansa, which left Jon both puzzled (how could anyone not look at Sansa) and irritated (how could anyone courting her not take every opportunity to express his affection and interest). Joffrey was followed by his younger sister and brother.

Myrcella resembled her brother and mother in coloring and stature, but her smile as she looked over at Sansa suggested that she was of a different disposition entirely. Next to her, her younger brother walked on without a word, more vacant than disdainful. Only after they had passed did Sansa gesture for Jon to proceed behind them.

“Are you always going to keep telling me when to move and when not to?” he asked in a whisper.

“If you need to be told, yes,” was her sharp reply, sincere despite the fact that Jon had spoken half in jest.

Jon felt his cheeks warm, oddly touched that she cared this much to help him, until he remembered Joffrey and wondered whether it wasn’t self-interest after all, only a desire for him not to embarrass her, and he felt irritation creeping up again. At himself for caring that her opinion mattered this much to him, and that her opinion of him seemed to hinge on his ability to impress people he could already tell he wouldn’t like. He wondered if the nice moment between them the day before had not been as significant to her as it had been to him, if what he had thought might be a turning point was something she even remembered now.

Once back inside the drawing room, Jon intended to plant himself in a corner and out of the way, but as soon as he stepped into the room, Ned beckoned him over.

“So you’re Benjen’s boy,” Robert said.

Jon smiled tightly, not sure what he should say in response.

“I bet you consider yourself quite lucky,” Cersei said, coming up behind him. “The son of a land agent now to be an earl.”

“My father worked for His Majesty’s government. I lost him and my cousin so lucky is the last thing I consider myself.”

“Of course, I mean to comment on the turn of fortune not what led up to it.”

“Of course,” Jon replied, not sure what she had been after other than point out what his background was.

“Can’t mistake you for someone other than a Stark, though,” Robert said. “You have both the look and feel.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“How are you finding Hacksby?” Catelyn said to Cersei, turning the conversation in a different direction and guiding her to one of the sofas, away from the men.

“For a brief sojourn, it’ll do.”

“How nice to be able to take such accommodations to visit friends,” Lyanna said.

“Our home is undergoing repairs,” said Myrcella. “And mother’s childhood home Casterly Rock is in even worse shape so we couldn’t stay there.”

Cersei’s expression didn’t change but Catelyn saw that mother and daughter exchanged a look that felt like a reprimand, one that suggested Cersei thought Myrcella had perhaps said too much. She told herself to ask Ned whether he knew exactly what had driven the Baratheons from their home and, if it was their finances as this exchange had suggested, whether the situation was dire.

“We have many good memories at Hacksby Park when it still belonged to Lord Manderly and his family,” Ned said. “Wyman was almost as avid a hunter as you, Robert.”

“Anytime you want to take out the horses, I’m ready,” Robert said. “God knows we need a bit of sport to liven things up. I know nothing will take you out of the north, Ned, but I don’t have the blood for it.”

“We’ve been thinking of hosting a hunt or a house party,” Cersei said.

“That would be lovely,” Catelyn said.

“Are you any good with a gun, Jon?” Robert asked.

“I’m not much for hunting, I’m afraid,” Jon said.

Joffrey laughed. “Of course, you’re not.”

“You’ll have to suggest local friends to invite,” Cersei said. “I can’t imagine who of our acquaintances would bother making the journey here.”

“Well, this would be the time of year to do it,” Catelyn said, ignoring the poorly concealed slight in Cersei’s words.

“I agree,” Lyanna added. “I always thought Winterfell was best in fall.”

“Because winter is coming,” Bran said, causing all the Starks in the room to chuckle.

”Yes, winter comes after fall, well spotted,” Joffrey said with condescension, also poorly concealed.

“‘Winter is coming’ are the Stark words,” Bran said.

“Stark _words_?”

“Like a family motto. The phrase is on our crest in the Brittonic language of the first men to settle in this part of the world.”

“Bran is the family historian,” Lyanna said with a proud smile. “He’ll be reading history at Exeter College at Oxford next year.”

“How nice for you,” Joffrey said in a tone that might have been called condescending but which nobody had time to consider or question because Myrcella quickly followed it up with, “It _is_ nice. All my governess bothered to teach me was how to curtsey properly.”

“What else could you possibly need, darling,” Cersei said. “You wrangled French and Latin out of her too.”

“Not quite enough for university,” Myrcella said wistfully.

Just then, Lewin stepped into the room and, after clearing his throat to make his presence known, announced, “Dinner is served.”

The gathering proceeded out of the room, much in the same way in which they came in, with Ned and Robert leading the way, followed by Catelyn, Cersei and Lyanna. Jon stood out of the way and exchanged glances with Sansa, so as to make clear to her that this time he had understood his place in the order. Joffrey, seemingly noticing the moment between them, made something of a show of stepping between them and offering her his arm.

“Winter is coming,” Joffrey said, loudly enough for everyone left in the room—his siblings and the younger Starks—to hear it. “Not particularly clever, is it? You’d think someone would have improved upon it, if this is as old a name as you say.”

“It’s only as clever as the person interpreting the phrase,” Bran responded. Arya and Rickon snickered, but Joffrey turned in annoyance not toward them but toward his brother Tommen, who had done the same.

“Lannister has house words, too,” Tommen said. “Or don’t you remember grandfather’s endless lectures about our family history.”

“No, I don’t remember because I don’t bother myself with the antics of self-important fools,” Joffrey said, throwing a glance back at Bran before heading out of the room, with Sansa still on his arm.

As they walked out she smiled, a smile made less natural by its eagerness to please—and appease—its recipient. “We have a Della Francesca in the gallery, my lord, would you like to see it after dinner?”

“So what are the Lannister House words?” Arya asked Tommen as the rest of the group filed out of the drawing room.

"They’re just as stupid, if you ask me,” he replied. “Hear me roar.”

They all laughed as they made it into the dining room. Jon found himself seated next to Myrcella on one side and Arya on the other, with the unpleasant view of Joffrey next to Sansa across the length of the table from him. He let out a long sigh and took a drink of the wine set in front of him, causing Arya to chuckle next to him.

“We’re in for a dozen courses of nonsense,” she said quietly, meaning only for him to hear her. “Shall I put you out of your misery now?”

Jon looked over with a smirk. “Wait until after the venison, and use the sharp knife.”

“You'll be on your own because I’ll have done it to myself by then,” Arya replied.

Jon laughed and heard Myrcella doing the same next to him. “I . . . I beg your pardon, my lady, for my ill manners,” he said, turning toward her. “To be perfectly honest, dinners like these are still something I’m getting used to. It would be futile for me to pretend otherwise.”

“Not at all, Mr. Stark,” she said, amiably. “But you’ve nothing to fear for I have sat next to Lady Arya for a dinner just like this one and survived.”

Jon smiled. “You’re braver than I, then.”

“I heard that!”

Jon chuckled.

“Mr. Stark,” Myrcella spoke up again. “I know I risk revealing that I am not a clever person, but I must ask, what did your brother mean about ‘Winter is coming’ having a meaning that could be understood differently by different people?”

“I think he was just trying to get a rise out of your brother.”

“I don’t doubt that, but even so.”

“The words aren’t really about winter in a literal sense. It means that difficulties always lie ahead and we should prepare for them.”

“I like that—a thoughtful warning. ‘Hear me roar’ sounds rather more like a threat.”

Jon looked across the table and saw that Joffrey had been watching them. “Indeed.”

* * *

It might have felt endless to at least some of its participants, but dinner did end.The women passed through to the drawing room after, and the men eventually joined them there, at which point Bran, Rickon and Arya snuck away for a game of billiards. Jon might have gone along with them, but he did not want to seem disrespectful to Ned or his guests. He also had the distinct notion that making himself scarce, however much he might have wanted to do just that, would have be a kind of concession to Joffrey Baratheon and his mother, who clearly made themselves known as people who took up space—figuratively speaking—and expected others to make way. Jon was uncomfortable in this new role, sure, but he would not give anyone inclined to judge him further ammunition on that score, certainly not the entitled ass who would never deserve the company of his beautiful cousin.

Watching Sansa throughout the evening, Jon could see that she had made it her mission to entertain and charm, and she was good at it. But Jon didn’t like the idea that her efforts were not fully appreciated. Worse, someone like Joffrey would never deign to try to please her in return. He knew it was the way of things among this set, and very likely what Sansa wanted for herself. Nevertheless, as Ned, Catelyn and Sansa walked the guests out, he wondered what Robb would think if he were still living, whether he would be the one to point out to Sansa that the man she had set her sights on was not worthy of her.

Jon did not think his musings were merely the result of jealousy. 

His mother, however, might have disagreed.

Looking at her as they waited in the drawing room, he saw that Lewin had poured her a fresh sherry. “And here I was just about to suggest it was time for us to go as well,” he said.

“I could see that look in your eye, but I’m enjoying this far too much to leave it or hurry the drinking of it,” she responded before taking a sip. “If you don’t want to join your brothers at billiards, then I suggest you go find something to read in the library.”

He smiled. It had been some time since his mother had been properly happy. After Benjen’s illness and death in India, it seemed wrong for them to return home, as if they’d be leaving behind his memory there if they left too soon after. Jon had already secured a position at the embassy before his father fell ill and his mother insisted he not derail his career at the start of it. The truth was, though, that he knew even then that he was not long for that type of work. He wasn’t much for the politics and longed to return not just to England, but to the country where he had been a boy. Getting to return was a kind of consolation after learning of Robb’s death and what it would require of him, but now that he was here he missed the cousin and friend whose presence had made the place so memorable to begin with. It was easy to see how comfortably Lyanna had settled into friendship with both Catelyn and Ned, the reminders of Benjen all around them now offering comfort rather than pain.

“What did you think of the Baratheons?” he asked.

“Robert was nice enough, I suppose, though I exchanged only pleasantries with him. His wife, on the other hand . . . I pity people brought up to believe themselves better than everyone else. They never enjoy anything and then feel obligated to make everyone around them miserable too.”

Her candor surprised him. “So you didn’t like them?”

Lyanna shrugged. “What’s not to like?”

Chuckling, Jon said, “You’ve stopped making sense. I think you have had a bit too much of that sherry.”

Lyanna smiled. “Perhaps.” She took another drink then let out a long sigh. “You are now in a position in which liking the people you must socialize with is beside the point. Stop fretting about it.” Lyanna narrowed her eyes as she regarded her son, a smile Jon recognized settling over her face. “Unless there is a reason you are—or a reason you didn’t like one of the Baratheons in particular, more like.”

“Mother,” he replied in a warning tone. 

“Son.”

“I think I _will_ go to the library,” he said, standing up, leaving a laughing Lyanna behind.

He walked through the gallery, instead of the main hall, thinking he could avoid Ned, Catelyn and Sansa as they returned to the drawing room, but he came upon Sansa just the same. She was standing alone looking at one of the pictures on the wall, holding her arms tightly against herself.

“It’s a fake,” she said, eyes still on the painting.

Her words took him by surprise.

“At least, I think it is,” she went on. “An art appraiser told father that it was a study for a larger painting that hangs in the National Gallery, but painters of DellaFrancesca’s time didn’t do studies and the colors here are not so bright as what he’s known for. Studies came into vogue in the 17th century. This is more likely a copy done by a student, possibly one of his—though it could have been done much later.”

Jon walked up to her to look at the painting up close. “I’m impressed.”

“It _is_ good work, regardless of its true provenance.”

“I meant your knowledge of it is impressive, though I suppose the painting is too. I have no mind for such things.”

“Useless trivia?”

“History and art, neither discipline is what I would call useless. Legal terminology on the other hand.”

Sansa bit her lip as if hiding a smile. Jon thought her cheeks reddened slightly but the room was too dark for him to tell.

“So you think the appraiser was wrong?” he asked.

“I think he had his eyes set on the commission from a potential sale,” she answered, smiling again.

“I wouldn’t know a thing about it, but it’s a conversation piece either way.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

“What did the viscount say to your thoughts it might a fake?”

Her expression closed off slightly. “I didn’t share them with him.”

Jon thought about what this might mean and could not help but prod further, however inadvisable that might be. “Why not?”

“He wouldn’t have been interested.”

“Probably wouldn’t have approved either.”

Sansa sighed and looked at Jon from the side of her eyes, betraying a bit of exasperation with him. “Would you judge him for that? Nobody likes inauthenticity.”

“And yet this world seems to thrive on it, so really it depends on the context and how good the fake is. Take me for instance.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed.

“Sometimes, I like to think that this is an elaborate ruse by Robb. Me trying to fill his shoes is his idea of a joke and he’s just around the corner or in the next room having a hearty laugh about it.” Jon stopped and laughed, and Sansa smiled at the way his eyes crinkled when he did so. “He did quite enjoy laughing at my expense.”

“He enjoyed laughing at everyone’s expense.”

Jon sighed. “I don’t like being here without him.”

“You feel like a fake because you’re trying to be _him_ , Jon, but that won’t work. You’re never going to be Robb.”

Jon looked down, unable to hide how slighted he felt by her words. “If you’re wondering whether I find it humiliating trying to play this part, I do.”

Sansa watched him for a moment. As always, he looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. “All I meant was . . . believe it or not, I know what it’s like to feel insufficient. As kind and as good a brother as Robb was, it was hard not to feel that way standing next to him.”

“What about standing next Joffrey Baratheon?”

Sansa looked away again. “We’re not talking about me.”

“I imagine Robb didn’t like him very much."

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Robb hated Joffrey."

“Then why—“

“Why do _I_ like him?” she said, turning to face Jon. “That’s my business. I’m my own person. I didn’t need Robb’s approval because Robb was not my father and neither are you.”

“I know how patronizing I must sound and I’m truly sorry for that. If you really do like him—God help you—then, fine. But don’t go through the motions because you think you’ll have nothing otherwise.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t think Joffrey is . . . good for you—I don’t mean not good for someone in your position. I mean you specifically. And I think you know that, which makes me wonder why you are giving him the time of day. So just in case you need to hear this, I’m going to say it: You won’t ever have to worry about being provided for, even when your father is gone. You can be guided by love instead of self-preservation, if that’s what you really want.”

Sansa scoffed. “Nobody will ever marry me for love. That’s not how it works for girls like me.”

“Like I said, I am not talking about girls like you. Just you.”

Sansa took a deep breath. She didn’t look angry, just tired. She looked at her hands for a moment, feeling a bit overwhelmed by everything he had said to her. “I wasn’t trying to offend you when I said you won’t ever be Robb,” she said quietly. “The last thing you are is fake, Jon. I just meant you should be yourself.”

“You should, too. In fact, we should make a pact. You tell where I’m supposed to stand or if I’m not holding my knife properly and—”

“And you’ll give me your opinion on the men courting me?!” Sansa cut in with a laugh. “That doesn’t sound like an even trade.”

“How about we just agree to be honest with one another. Choosing to take any advice proffered remains optional."

Sansa rolled her eyes, but did so with a smile. “Fine.”

Jon let out a breath, feeling satisfied by the truce they had come to. He looked back at the painting. “Do _you_ still paint? I always thought you were very good. There were several paintings of yours in the corridor leading up to the nursery, isn't that right?”

Sansa regarded him with skepticism. “You remember all of that?”

Jon looked away embarrassed. “I remember more than you probably think I do. Perhaps more than I should.”

“No, I don’t paint anymore,” she answered.

“Maybe you should."

Jon continued on his way to the library after that, distance being the only thing that would stop him from saying more. He couldn’t escape the feeling that he had already said too much.

Sansa, for her part, couldn’t stop thinking about what he'd said. His words kept repeating on a loop in her head as she went upstairs to her room. She didn’t really know what had made her feel so defensive when Jon had brought up Joffrey. Being a woman expected to marry well was exhausting in ways her younger self had not been prepared for. The last thing she wanted was for Jon to think her stupid, but admitting to him the uncertainty she felt about her own future didn’t seem appealing either. His suggestion that she need not worry about being provided her was sweet, though she had never assumed that Jon would be anything other than as kind as she remembered him.

She liked the fact that they came to an understanding, even though she wondered if having him as a confidant wouldn’t just leave her more confused in the long run. She would appreciate his honesty more, for instance, if a small part of her didn’t wish that his lecturing her about Joffrey was borne of jealousy, not good sense. But she put that thought away before she could linger on it.

After she had rung for Jeyne and changed out of her clothes, as she was climbing into bed, she heard a knock on her door. It was her mother coming in to say goodnight.

“Has everyone gone?” Sansa asked, standing up again as Catelyn walked in.

Catelyn nodded. “I think it was a successful evening, all told, don’t you?”

Sansa nodded, but Catelyn sensed unease in her daughter’s mood.

“Did you have a good time at least? It seemed like you and Joffrey were getting along well.”

“We were,” Sansa replied plainly, not giving much away in her response.

Lyanna may have put the thought of marriage to Sansa in Jon’s head already, but for Catelyn, timing was everything, and for her—for Sansa—it still felt too soon. Both her daughters were such that if they sensed too much parental intrusion they would run the other way and this situation was no different. Catelyn would not ask Sansa to consider Jon as a potential match until Sansa was ready to hear the suggestion, and although Catelyn knew that Sansa was not entirely blind to the idea, noticing that he was handsome and available and hearing the same from her mother were two different things.

“If this is the match you want,” she said carefully, “I can speak to your father about it and, perhaps, he can speak to Robert, but I do want you to be sure.”

“I am not sure what _sure_ feels like, mama. When I was young, I wanted it to feel like an Austen novel. Now, I would just settle for believing I am doing the right thing, no matter who it is.”

Catelyn cradled Sansa’s cheek with her hand. “You are trying to shake the romantic in you, darling, and you shouldn’t. Just be yourself. Be honest.”

“You’re not a good person to take advice from,” Sansa said with a smirk. “You had fortune on your side, in all senses of that word.”

“Your father and I—we didn’t love one another at the start, not the way we do now. Love didn't just happen to us. We built it slowly, stone by stone, over the years.”

“Just by being honest with one another?”

“It sounds awfully simple, but it isn’t.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Catelyn pulled Sansa into her arms. “Sleep well, darling. Rome wasn’t built in a day.” 

Sansa couldn’t help but laugh. “It was built _stone by stone_.”

Catelyn shook her head and smiled. "Goodnight!"

Once she was alone again, Sansa crawled into her bed and fell back onto her pillow with a sigh of something that felt like relief, still thinking about Jon and what he had said.

_How about we just agree to be honest with one another._

She closed her eyes, too tired to try to stop romantic notions from dancing in her head as she fell asleep.


	8. Flowers and Feelings in Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's got a crush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place about a week after the last chapter. Everyone is in their feelings in spite of themselves, especially Arya and Sansa. A few more characters are introduced, including Lady Olenna, the closest approximation to Downton's Dowager Countess. Also, if you watched Downton, the storyline in which Sybil helps Gwen get a job begins to come into play with Arya and Hot Pie.

“Meera’s here.”

Bran didn’t look up from his book to reply. “Who’s here?”

“Meera.”

“Am I supposed to know who that is?”

Rickon laughed turning back to his brother from the window in the Stark House parlor where he was looking out at the young lady in question. She was on her knees, helping a man, elderly though clearly still strong, carefully dig up some of the roses in the house’s back garden and place them carefully in a small pot.

“You would if you ever took your nose out of your books.”

“I would if there were anything interesting happening outside of them.”

“You’re going to university soon enough,” Rickon said. “Why not enjoy the time you have at home?”

Bran finally looked up. “Like you? You know you’re meant to go to university as well—or at least figure out what you want to do with your life, and I don’t think anyone can make a living ogling girls, not even you.”

“I’m not ogling her.”

Bran scoffed.

“I’m not! I’m just . . . watching."

Bran closed his book and went up to the window to stand next to Rickon and look out. “Who is she anyway?”

“She’s Reed’s daughter. She helps the housekeeper around the house sometimes.” 

“And who’s the old man?”

“The gardener, obviously.”

Bran rolled his eyes. “I can see that—I mean what’s his name.”

“How should I know?”

Just then the girl looked up directly into the window, taking the brothers by surprise. They both immediately stepped back. Rickon laughed. “Could she hear us?”

Bran, who felt rather embarrassed at having been caught like that, opened up his book and sat back down. “Why don’t you find something useful to do?” he asked.

“And what should that be?” Rickon retorted.

“Can you not even manage to entertain yourself?”

“You know, I don't think being clever necessarily makes you a good person.”

“I know having an idle mind doesn't.”

Rickon rolled his eyes and left the room. Moments like this made him miss India the most. Jon had his job and the work he did with Lord Stark to learn about managing the estate, his mother had the charity work she had jumped into with both feet alongside Lady Stark. Bran, God help him, had his books. Having finished his schooling back in India just prior to his departure, Rickon would have been able to petition for a seat at Exeter College alongside Bran, who would have started this fall had his mother not insisted they settle into their new life first. But Rickon knew already that an academic’s life was not for him. He was not sure what he wanted to do with his life but spending it in lecture halls was not it. The previous week he had taken a bicycle ride around the estate farms with Jon and Mr. Mormont, the land agent, and it was the most enjoyment he’d gotten since arriving in Winterfell. Feeling inclined to go out of doors rather than stand Bran’s condescension any more, Rickon went out to retrace the journey.

Back in the parlor, Bran continued looking at the same page for several minutes before slamming the book closed and cursing his brother for having taken him out of his mood. As the middle child, Bran should have been the one to bridge the interests of his older and younger siblings, but as they grew older, he saw that he was unique in his family in preferring to get lost in history and philosophy. Jon understood Bran and often indulged him in conversation, but Bran could tell this was done our of brotherly loyalty not shared interest—in the same way Jon would participate in sport with Rickon. They were three individuals, a fact his mother took pride in, but it also meant that in moments like this, Bran could feel as if no on understood him or wanted to.

He decided to ring for tea, and such was his luck—good or bad, he couldn’t decide—that the very young lady that he and his brother had been spying on only minutes before came in with a tray. Without looking at him, she set it at the table adjacent to where he had been sitting. Having stood upon her entry, he gave her room to do her job but couldn’t help but watch her.

She was dressed in a plain black dress, not livery _per se_ , but obviously meant to allow her to blend in as staff. She had chestnut brown hair that was pinned away from her face but fell in soft curls at her shoulders.

Had she really been part of the household all this time and he hadn’t noticed?

When he had stood he had left his book open on the chair, and he noticed that as she set up his service, she was eyeing it.

“It’s Voltaire,” he heard himself saying. “Letters on the English.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“The title is on the top of each page,” she said.

Bran wondered momentarily if she thought him stupid. “He’s a French philosopher.”

“I know who Voltaire is.”

“You do?” Bran said reflexively and regretted it the moment it came out of his mouth. Now there was no wondering whether she thought him stupid. It was written on her expression.

“The rich don’t have a monopoly on reading or knowledge.”

“Thank God for that, otherwise I wouldn’t have access to either.”

She looked at him for a long moment but didn’t respond.

“We’re not rich either is what I mean to say.”

She looked around the room as if to suggest the opposite was true. “Not very self-critical. What would Mr. Voltaire have to say about that?”

Bran felt a smile begin to form on his face, but before he could say anything, footsteps out in the hall caused Meera to straighten up. “Will you be needing anything else, sir?”

Seeing Reed at the doorway, Bran answered. “No, thank you.”

Meera curtsied and turned to go, but before she was out of the room, Brad said, “Reed, who do we have to thank for the garden looking as nice as it does?”

“My father, sir,” Reed said. “He’s been tending the garden here for many years. It’s a hobby that has brought him some peace after the death of my mother. Even when the house was vacant, Lady Stark saw to it that the garden was well maintained. He and Meera have been preparing the house stall at the flower show.”

“I should like to see it,” Bran said.

“When is the judging, Meera?” Reed asked his daughter, who was now just outside the door.

“The stalls open today,” she replied, looking at her father. "The cup is awarded the day after tomorrow.”

“Best of luck to him, then,” Bran said.

“It isn’t about luck,” Meera said. “Or flowers as it happens.” She looked for a moment at the book in Bran’s hands, and he realized she seemed to be referring to Voltaire again but couldn’t do so out loud because her father was now present.

In fact, Reed looked at his daughter from the side of his eyes as if suggesting even the innocuous words she had said were inappropriate. She curtsied again and took her leave. Bran couldn’t help but wish he could know what she might have said if circumstances were different. If her father hadn’t come into the room, if she wasn’t _serving_ , if he wasn’t the person being served.

“The contest is a bit of a false front, I’m afraid,” Reed said with a sigh. “Has been for years. ”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Bran said.

“It’s a nice show, in any case.” Reed sighed and offered a smile. “I’ll leave you to have your tea, sir.”

Bran nodded. _Sir._

Finding himself alone again, he looked around the room, and it suddenly felt different. To this point, he had considered everything that resulted from Robb Stark’s death only in relation to how it affected his brother Jon, not realizing that Jon’s turn of fortune was also his, in a way. On the surface, Bran’s future was unchanged. He’d still be going to university, taking a spot at the same Oxford college that had educated his father. Now that Jon would be an earl, however—a member of the aristocracy _bone fide—_ Bran’s journey would be different. People would perceive him, his interests and goals, differently.

There were lines and rules around people that hadn’t been there before.

Nothing had changed, and yet everything had.

* * *

The lines and rules that Bran was only realizing applied to him when it came to other people had always been there for Arya, but she had never paid them much mind. So there really was nothing out of the ordinary, she told herself, when she walked down to the garage for the third time that week. The frequency of it had been such that she had lost track. Not since she’d been a child and she came outside almost daily in search of what counted for adventure.

Sandor noticed, however. He was walking into the entrance hall for a late luncheon, having just returned from driving Ned to some business around the estate, when he saw Arya step into the yard and walk in his direction.

“Making it a habit again, are we?” he said.

His expression was practically a scowl, but then it always was. Arya smiled at his relentless gruffness. “Making what a habit?”

“Coming down here.”

Arya shrugged. “I have things to do like everyone else.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, then looked back at the outdoor table where Arya could see that Gendry was sitting, conversing with Hot Pie.

“You never seem to need to do them when I’m around to drive ya.”

Arya glanced at Gendry, then back at Sandor, then back at Gendry, who looked up at just that moment and smiled. Realizing immediately, though, that he was being watched, he pursed his lips again and looked down. Sandor looked back at Arya and arched an eyebrow in question.

“Why do you say that,” she said, innocently. “Do you miss me?”

He huffed. “What’s to miss?”

Arya laughed at this. “Here, clearly, is a man in need of a meal. Go eat before you bite someone’s head off.”

He leaned down in an exaggerated bow. “My lady.”

“Or before I bite your head off.”

Arya watched him as he shook his head and headed inside, not turning back to Gendry and Hot Pie until Sandor was out of sight. She smiled and then bit her lip as if to stop herself from doing so. Each time she had come down this week she’d had an errand to ask Gendry about or needed the motor or was ordering it for her mother. That these were things she did not need to speak to Gendry directly about was of no consequence. She always got to know the staff and enjoyed doing so. That these were matters that would only take a few minutes to discuss — and yet she stayed far longer was . . . well, it all felt very normal to her. There wasn’t anything odd about her friendship with him, she told herself. She had been friends with Hot Pie all this time, and Sandor had never said a word about _that_.

Shaking any thoughts of whatever it was Sandor was trying to put in her head, she finally made it all the way over to Gendry and Hot Pie and sat down with them. Gendry, who had a basket of bread in from of him, stood as she approached. Hot Pie was about to do the same when Arya pointed to him sharply.

“Don't!”

“Whatever you say, milady,” he replied with a chuckle.

Arya rolled her eyes as she sat, Gendry only sitting down after she had done so.

He pushed the basket in her direction, but Arya shook her head. “I’ve been on the receiving end of his baking experiments too many times.”

Gendry shrugged and took another roll, practically stuffing the whole thing in his mouth. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” he said, once he’d finished chewing. “Granted, I don’t have much experience when it comes to fancy food, but this is good stuff, mate.”

“You don’t think it’s too chewy?” Hot Pie asked.

“It practically melts in your mouth!”

Gendry reached for the last roll, but Arya grabbed it first. “All right, you’ve piqued my curiosity.” After taking a bite, she said, “That is good, but what am I tasting?”

“Rosemary and olive oil. We had some extra dough left from breakfast this morning, and I thought I’d not let it go to waste. We had them with the servants’ luncheon stew today. It’s not a new invention or anything. It’s only that mum prefers rolls on the sweater side, so that’s usually what we make. I like savory, but she’s the cook.”

“She’ll retire someday, won't she?” Gendry asked. “Would you get to take over?”

“Knowing mum, she’ll work ’til she drops dead into a bowl of cake batter at 90 years old. Anyway, boys aren’t really meant to work in a house kitchen. She’d have forced me into a footman’s livery long ago, but I was too fat for it and Lewin didn't want to have it altered just so that it would fit me. I also dropped too many things for his liking when I was still a hall boy. I’m better at helping her than anything else, and I do it better than all the kitchen maids put together. ”

“I heard mama say once that the chef at the Ritz in London is a man,” Arya said. “If I can be an Olympian, you can be a chef.”

“Are you an Olympian?”

“Not _yet_.”

“I reckon she’ll do it, too,” Gendry said, without an ounce of sarcasm in his voice, which Arya couldn’t help but smile at.

“Well, the Ritz is too far flung an idea, but I wouldn’t mind having my own restaurant someday or pub even.” Hot Pie laughed and stood up, picking up the basket. “What am I even saying that for? I don’t have proper training. Mum knows what she does well, and she’s taught me that much, but she doesn’t know everything.”

“Surely, there are courses you can take, right?” Gendry asked. “Why not try one of those?”

“I don't know . . . I have it good here. I get to do something I like with more freedom than I would otherwise. If I were to turn my back on the family that’s done so much for mum and me, and then fail, and return with my tail between my legs, what then?”

“I can’t say as I know anything about cooking,” Gendry said, “but I mean it when I say those rolls are about the best thing I’ve ever had. If just anybody could make bread like that, I would have had something as good as that by now.”

“People like us are raised on porridge and stew, Mr. Waters. Anybody who knows how to bake could do this‚ and bakers are a dime a dozen.”

“I wasn’t raised on porridge and stew,” Arya said. “And I agree with him. Come on, Hot Pie, if I can try to be an Olympic fencer, surely you can try to be a real chef.”

Hot Pie’s shoulders sagged, which took Arya by surprise. “What you can try and what I can try are different things, milady.” Arya opened her mouth, but now rather annoyed, Hot Pie cut her off. “And don’t tell me not to call you that because it’s what you are. It’s rude to pretend you’re not, and even more so to ask us to as if we couldn’t get into a heap of trouble for it. I don’t mind Mr. Waters thinking I could take on so ridiculous a notion as becoming a chef, because he has no sense, but you should not assume that just because your dreams are within your reach mine are too.”

With that, he turned in a huff and left. Arya called out to him, but he didn’t turn around and went back into the servants hall with a slam of the door.

“That wasn’t very nice of him,” Gendry said.

“No, it wasn’t nice of _me_ ,” Arya replied, sadly, still looking in the direction her friend had walked off.

“You weren’t the one who said I had no sense!”

Arya turned back to look at him and realized that he was intentionally putting the focus of Hot Pie’s words on himself to lessen the sting for her. She laughed, burying her face in her hands to hide the fact that she could feel herself blushing. He had a generous spirit and it was almost embarrassing how much she liked it, embarrassing because of the very thing Hot Pie had just called out: She had no right to ask to be included in their world or to be their friend.

With a sigh she looked up at Gendry again. “You want to know why I say that—that I don’t want to be a lady?”

“Why?”

“Because I wouldn’t make a very good one.”

“Why do you say that?”

Arya shrugged. “Our governess used to say it, and she was right, more or less. The things my sister is good at like painting, singing, playing the piano, engaging people in conversation—those are the things girls like us are supposed to be good at, so when the time comes, we’ll be grand hostesses and hold entertaining parties and charity luncheons that make our husbands proud. I was never as good at any of those things as she was and didn’t much like practicing them.”

“Did you not like them to begin with or did you not like them because you were not good at them?”

Arya smirked. She certainly did not like things she wasn’t good at, and it amused her that he had sussed out that much of her personality already. “A bit of both, I must admit.” After a beat, she added, “It all came so naturally to Sansa, there was no real point in me trying. Robb was better than me at the things he was good at, like sport, but at least I knew it was because he was bigger and stronger than me, and with him it was fun.”

She looked down for a moment, and Gendry noticed that her eyes misted over.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said quietly. Gendry had come along months after the young man’s death, but even among the staff, the absence was still keenly felt. “I . . . I suppose I know where Hot Pie is coming from, not wanting to get his hopes up when, for people like us, dreams tend to stay just that, but the fact that you seek him out like . . . well, like a brother, having lost one . . . it shows a kindness on your part that isn’t common. He shouldn’t take offense. You were just trying to encourage him, same as me.”

Arya smiled. “Thank you for saying that. I’ll apologize to him later, though. I shouldn’t take our differences in position for granted when the consequences are not for me to face. Something Sansa likes to remind me of.” She rolled her eyes, making Gendry laugh.

“Do you two not get on?”

“It’s more that we have little in common. It’s better between us now than when we were children. I don’t want it to be worse, in any case, with our brother gone. I dare say she feels the same. I don’t think her unkind—far from it. She uses her manners to make people comfortable and be kind, not because she's a snob. I just don’t understand her sometimes, and her friends are insufferable, as is the man she thinks she wants to marry. Sansa is better than all of them, but she hides who she is, especially from Joffrey, which makes no sense. I wouldn’t want to marry anyone who I couldn’t be totally honest with — not that it matters. I’m not getting married.”

“You’re rather young to be so sure about that, don’t you think?”

“I have goals, and a husband of the kind my parents would expect would only get in the way of that.”

There was a long silence between them. It occurred to Arya that she didn’t usually confide in anyone in this way. Not her sister or parents, not her cousins, and not Hot Pie, the person who could claim to know her best, outside of her family. Gendry was so easy to talk to, though. She enjoyed how revealing it was to do so and found that she learned things about herself when talking to him, sharing details of her life with him that were unusual to share with anyone other than a confidant, even if that’s not how she would describe him.

“Anyway, my sister will marry. So will my cousin Jon surely, so the Stark line doesn’t need me to go on. I’d tell them to marry each other and be done with it, if they bothered to ask my opinion.”

Gendry chuckled. “If you don’t mind me saying it, you don’t strike me as someone who waits to be asked to speak your mind."

Arya laughed. “I’m not, but I know what Sansa would say if I told her that, and honestly, it’s ridiculous that it should take convincing. She could be lady of Winterfell if she wanted, but she likely thinks Jon’s too small for her.”

“She _is_ terribly tall.”

Arya narrowed her eyes at him in confusion, and after a beat Gendry laughed nervously. “I’m joking . . . you said he’s small and . . .”

"I didn't mean literally!"

"I know."

Arya crossed her arms. “I sometimes can’t tell if you’re being stupid or funny.”

Gendry frowned slightly. “You think I’m stupid?”

She laughed, shaking her head, inwardly pleased that her opinion of him mattered to him. “No, I don’t think you’re stupid. Your brand of humor, however.”

He laughed, more bashfully this time. Clearing his throat, he said, “So does Mr. Stark fancy Lady Sansa?”

“Everyone fancies her.”

“Does that make you jealous?”

“No!”

Gendry laughed again. “Joking!”

“See! Terrible sense of humor!”

“You keep saying that, but you are _laughing_.”

“It’s a pitying laugh.”

“Well, I’ll take it,” he said with a smile that faded after a quiet moment. He stood up, rubbing his hands on his sides, as if trying to expel nervous energy. “I ought to get back to work.”

Arya nodded and stood also. He bowed slightly and turned to go back into the garage, but after a beat, she followed him in.

“Do you really think that dreams can only come true if you have money?” she asked him.

“I guess it just depends on what the dream is. A man could dream of being king of England but no amount of money is going to make that happen unless his father is king first.”

“Was it your dream to be a chauffeur?”

“It was my father’s—rather, he just wanted me to have a more lucrative trade. I knew it was a good opportunity so I took it, but I’m not sure I have a dream yet.”

Arya looked away, feeling her cheeks pinch from smiling at the sparkle in his eye when he said that and the way he was looking at her. “Still, that must have taken some effort to make happen.”

“It did, on both our parts, but we had a bit of luck too. Lucky connections, in any case. That’s where having money helps—you can make your own luck or you can buy the connections you need.”

“I’d like to live in a world where anyone can make their own luck, but how could such world exist if women can’t vote?”

“There are things that can be done on that score,” Gendry said.

“I’m a member of a local committee and honestly all those women do when they gather is gossip.”

“Maybe your lot, but there are some who rally and canvass, really get in people’s faces—I’ve seen them.”

“You’ve been to a rally?” Arya asked incredulous.

“No, but I’m not the master of my schedule.”

“If only there was a way to attend as part of your work . . .“

Gendry looked at her confused for a second before realizing what she was implying.

“Right then. I’ll find when the next one is.”

“And I’ll ask for the motor at that day and time,” Arya said, excited about the possibility true action represented. “As for Hot Pie, I have an idea. If our world won’t do much for his dreams, then me saying Hot Pie becoming a real chef is _my_ dream that will make it more likely to come true, don’t you think?”

“Anything is easier to do with help, but I honestly don’t think it’s so out of reach as he thinks it is. Cookin’s a trade like any other, and for him it comes natural.”

“Let’s help him then, the both of us.”

Gendry nodded.

Arya looked down and saw that she was wringing her hands. “I should stop taking up so much of your time,” she said with a nervous laugh.

“You shouldn’t.”

Gendry’s eyes widened as if even he hadn’t expected those words to come out of his mouth. “I best get working, though, or Mr. Clegane will be a terror when he comes back in here.”

“I really don’t know why you’re so scared of him,” Arya said, finally turning to go. “He’s a puppy.”

“More like a hound,” she heard Gendry respond behind her.

* * *

The annual Winterfell village flower show ended every year on a Sunday. After three days of ooh-ing and ah-ing over the neatly arranged stalls of local, carefully nurtured flora, the judges would gather for a small dinner party—usually held at the Tyrell estate, Highgarden—to decide on whom to confer the winner’s cup (or merely drink the wine and eat the food served by the presumptive winner, who happened to live there). Then, the following morning, at the conclusion of the weekly service at the local church, those gathered would all file out of the small, drafty stone structure and walk over to the village pavilion en masse.

The Lord Stark and his family were always among the procession, and once they arrived at the destination, he and the Lady Stark would stand at the entrance and offer greeting to everyone as they filed in. Eventually, the judges would gather on the small stage at the front of the room and announce the winner. Lady Olenna would offer her thanks and after a time, the crowd would disperse. The Starks would walk home together, most of the staff with them, and settle in for a late luncheon.

It was always one of Sansa’s favorite days of the year. Winterfell village wasn’t a big place. Its charms were lost on many who, like Sansa herself, had spent time in London or the continent. But what she had once seen as provincial, she had grown to see as comforting. As a child, the smallness of the place had felt confining, but as she saw more of the world, Sansa learned that all kinds of places could be that way. Indeed, it was the people who made a place what it was, and it turned out that Winterfell had the best kind of people. They were kind, loyal and honest in ways people elsewhere were not. The pomp and pageantry that she had felt lacking in her life in Winterfell when she was a romantic girl who dreamed of knights and princes and grand balls did, in fact, exist in smaller, less obvious ways. The flower show was just such an instance.

Sansa had always enjoyed watching her parents talk with people as they came into the event and throughout the proceedings. They were never condescending or grand. Instead, they were patient and attentive no matter the person or their station. Even when she still longed to go other places, a small part of her had been just a little bit jealous of Robb because he and his future wife would be the ones who would get to take the mantle from her parents someday and devote their lives to the community that had nurtured them. As a daughter, that role would never be hers.

On this, the first flower show after her brother's death, when Sansa saw Jon and his family walk in and greet Ned and Cat, the pang of jealousy returned. Now, however, it was not directed at the future lord so much as the woman who might stand beside him. The feeling might have take Sansa by surprise were it not for the fact that, despite her best efforts, she hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind since they had made their pact after the dinner party the week prior. He had, to her surprise, awoken a sense of romance in her that had lain dormant too long from neglect. But in an effort to keep her feelings about him from growing more complicated than they already were, Sansa convinced herself that Jon’s interest in her—if one should even call it that—was brotherly. Surely, it was all an attempt by him to do right by Sansa in the same way Robb would do if he were still among them. Thus, she gave herself license to think about him, the seemingly joyless boy she remembered and the man he had grown up to be, firmly believing that the nature of their relationship was unlikely to change. 

Also, he was just really very handsome.

In his time back, Sansa had noticed that Jon was not an ostentatious dresser. On most occasions, he wore a modest gray or black suit, not the fanciest by any stretched but well tailored. She had noticed, on this day, when they had come into church, that he was in a more traditional Sunday suit, lighter in color. Now, she could see the whole of him as he spoke with Ned, and she saw how becoming it was. She also noticed how much Jon resembled her father, and she couldn’t stop herself picturing what it would be like for her, so similar in look to Cat, to be the one who would get to stand next to him.

“So that’s him, then?”

Sansa turned and saw Margaery Tyrell at her side. She was looking at Jon too. Sansa watched for a long moment until Margaery turned toward Sansa with that smile of hers that felt like a riddle.

The Tyrells and the Starks had known each other since the two girls were children, but they had never been particularly close. The Tyrell estate was not so grand as Winterfell, perhaps, but its primary source of income was the abundant, well known gardens, a wondrous sight when in full bloom. Margaery’s father, Sir Mace Tyrell, was originally from some county to the south and had married into a fortune that had allowed him to buy Highgarden and expand its operations. At some point, too long ago for Sansa to remember, he lost both his wife and his father, at which point his mother, Lady Olenna, joined him at Highgarden to tend to both the flowers and the children. His sons, Willas and Lloras, had not distinguished themselves in any particular way yet, but they were nice looking, popular in London and never lacked for invitations every season. During her first season, Sansa would blush each time Lloras asked her to dance and swooned whenever he looked her way, but she realized later that his attention didn’t distinguish her. He danced with all the pretty girls with no real inclination toward any of them, happy just to be the subject of the whispers among every crowd that coalesced around him.

Margaery, a year older than Sansa, had not yet married. She was beautiful with light brown hair and a disposition that accommodated easily. She was reaching the age at which the absence of an engagement was wondered about. What the local gossips didn’t know was that she had set her sights on Robb Stark, and although Sansa knew Robb had not settled on the question of marriage with her quite yet when he died, she also knew Margaery’s interest had been matched. In the immediate aftermath of Robb’s death, Sansa was too deep in her grief to notice whether Margaery was particularly heartbroken, but as Sansa regarded her now, with Jon in her view, she couldn’t help but wonder just how deep those feelings had gone. For this very expression of interest was one Sansa remembered seeing in her when Robb was still alive.

“Hello to you, too,” Sansa said with a smile.

“He’s not so handsome as Robb, but I do like the look of him,” Margaery replied, smiling in earnest now, and responding as if Sansa had acknowledged her question.

Unable to help herself, Sansa looked at Jon again. She did not say anything but did not like the look on Margaery’s face when she turned back toward her.

“Are you speaking of my cousin?”

“Who else, darling. My grandmother says he’s a solicitor. I suppose it can’t be helped in this day and age that he has a profession. You’ll have to introduce me. Is he engaged?”

“You know he works, which means inquiries were made. Are you telling me Lady Olenna did not manage to find the answer to that question?”

“For information of this nature, it’s easier to go to the source. You’re his family, aren’t you? The answer is no so far as _she_ knows, but there is a limit even to my granny’s powers.”

“Is there a limit on the number of times she’ll get the cup?”

Margaery smirked. “Ours are always the loveliest flowers here, and few would argue that point.”

“A cutting glare from your grandmother and few would dare,” Sansa said, rather proud of herself for the quip. She considered Margaery a friend but acknowledged that she was the kind of friend who always liked getting the last word.

Margaery laughed and took Sansa’s arm to link it with her own. “If she heard me laugh at her expense, she would tell father to disinherit me. You should not risk my future like that, darling. Now tell me more about your cousin.”

“There isn’t much to say really.”

“Or there isn’t much you want to share?”

Sansa bit her lip, as if she’d been caught. Jon was the last person she wanted to gossip about. “I don’t know him any better than you,” she said, finally. “I haven’t seen him for ten years. He and Robb were at university together, but Jon never came back to Winterfell after his family left the country when we were younger. It had been ten years since I’d laid eyes on him."

Just then, Sansa noticed Myrcella Baratheon approaching them with her usual bright smile. “Hello, Sansa.”

“Myrcella,” she replied. “Wonderful to see you. I didn’t realize you were coming."

"It's just me and mother. The men couldn't be bothered, and I'm happy not to be bothered by them."

Sansa couldn't help but agree, oddly relieved that she'd not have to contend with Joffrey, who would no doubt expect that she devote her time to him. "May I present Miss Margaery Tyrell," she said. "I believe you met in London.”

“Oh, yes, it’s wonderful to see you again,” Myrcella said.

“Likewise,” Margaery said, her enigmatic smile returning.

“Sansa, is the rest of your family here?” Myrcella asked. “It would be nice to say hello to Mr. Stark. He was so kind the other night.”

“Oh, so you know him,” Margaery cut in before Sansa could respond.

Myrcella nodded. “Lord Stark invited our family to dinner last week, and we had the pleasure of meeting him and his mother and brothers. They were all lovely people.”

“But you liked him best,” Margaery pressed.

“She sat next to him at dinner, “ Sansa said. “That’s all.”

“He was terribly nice,” Myrcella said.

“He’s nice to everyone,” Sansa cut in again, before Myrcella could say more. “Having just been presented in London, I’m sure you were starved for mere courtesy. I know I was.”

The words sounded less sharp to Myrcella than they did to Sansa herself, who felt Margaery’s eyes on her as she spoke. Myrcella wasn’t suggesting she’d shared any sort of intimacy with Jon. As innocuous as her words were, Sansa didn’t want them being said, not to Margaery, who might latch onto them for her own benefit, not to anyone. Jon’s kindness came naturally to him. He was not selfish with it, but she could not help but wish that he were, as if his attention was a secret treasure that might lose its sheen if too many were made aware of it.

They were saved from further examination of the topic by another person coming into their conversation. This time is was Lady Olenna herself.

“Hello, granny,” Margaery said, “You remember Lady Sansa, don’t you? This is her friend, Lady Myrcella Baratheon. Her parents are the duke and duchess of Storm's End.”

“Hello, dear,” Lady Olenna said, not bothering to turn to look at Myrcella. “Good heavens, Lady Sansa you seem to be three inches taller every time I see you. I would tell your mother to stop feeding you, but she doesn’t listen to my advice as one can tell from the state of her flowers every year. I hope she’s prepared herself for another disappointment. The Winterfell blooms are nice enough, but who can compete with us.”

Lady Olenna led the girls to the Highgarden stall, which was grand indeed, full bright roses of several varieties and colors, each of them opened just so that they looked like puckered lips. Myrcella, bless her, listened attentively as Lady Olenna named each one and explained the process of nurturing and pruning. She was joined after a time by Cersei, who seemed to have as much patience for Lady Olenna as Lady Olenna had for her, which was to say very little. Sansa allowed herself to be led away by Margaery who walked around the large hall like a crown princess surveying her future kingdom. Eventually, they made it to the Stark House stall, where Lyanna was delighting in the display that the Reeds, the family who cared for the house, had prepared. The old Mr. Reed was standing next to his work, clearly proud, with son and granddaughter next to him.

“Aren’t these just beautiful!” Lyanna said. “Do look at Mr. Reed’s display. He’s worked so hard.”

“Rather marvelous, aren’t they?” Jon said quietly, moving to give the young women a better view of the full stall, but also as a way to get to stand next to Sansa.

“Lovely,” Sansa said, feeling her skin prickle at the soft timber of his voice. “Well done, Mr. Reed.”

“Thank you, milady.”

“It’s a wonderful area for roses,” Margaery said. “We’re very lucky. We’ll see some beautiful examples right across the show.”

Margaery looked at Sansa with an expectant smile, and Sansa finally made the introductions, inwardly chastising herself for not checking her feelings to such an extent that they were informing her manners. Jealousy or pettiness were not traits she liked in herself or others. Margaery charmed Lyanna, Jon and his brothers, though Rickon eventually stepped away to say hello to Mr. Mormont, and Bran who had also moved a few feet away seemed to be looking around at everyone as if they were part of a museum display.

Amused at this, Sansa walked over to him, Jon and Margaery following. “What do you think?”

“Apparently, the same family wins every year, so the contest isn’t really much of one,” he said. “I’m trying to make out which stall theirs is.”

Having overheard, Margaery spoke up. “That would be my family. My grandmother takes greater pride in her flowers than anyone here, which is why she wins more often than most, but it’s never considered undeserved. Personally, I think everyone is to be congratulated. It’s really quite splendid.”

“But if your family runs the show what else is to be expected,” Bran said. “Do look at these roses. Have you ever seen the like? I’m sure I haven’t.”

“Well, we must have you all over to Highgarden,” she replied without missing a beat. “You’ll see the like of these and much more."

“And what do we have here!” Lady Olenna had seen the crowd gathering around the Stark House stall and came to investigate. Cat, having noticed also, was behind her.

“Granny, you might have a bit of competition this year,” Margaery said, escorting her over and introducing Lyanna, Jon and Bran, adding when she got to him, “And this is Mr. Bran Stark, who believes we may profiting from an unfair advantage.”

“Oh?” Lady Olenna responded looking aghast, as if no greater insult could have been directed her way.

Still standing next to Jon, Sansa squeezed his elbow subtly. “Please excuse my brother,” he said immediately, having taken her cue exactly how she meant it. “We’re new to the area and I’m sure when we see the Tyrell roses, it’ll be hard to think they could be bettered.”

“Hard, but not impossible,” Bran offered casually.

Lady Olenna looked at Bran from the side of her eyes, a crack of a smile on her expression, no longer aghast. Almost impressed.

“These are excellent,” she said after taking a few minutes to look over the flowers. “I congratulate you, Mrs. Stark. For a newcomer, you’ve done quite well. Lady Catelyn, you should take note.”

Lady Olenna was not looking at Cat, so she missed the way Cat rolled her eyes. Sansa and Jon both saw and smiled at her, then at each other, which in turn caused them to miss Cat looking rather pleased. She had seen the way Sansa prompted him to speak up and smooth over Bran’s comment, and she marveled at the ease of their rapport now when at the start it had been so awkward.

“I must admit, my lady, this is entirely the work of Mr. Reed, here,” Lyanna said. “He has been tending the gardens for far longer than I’ve had the pleasure, so if I am to be congratulated it would only be for having the sense to leave it all to him.”

“Very well done, indeed, sir,” Lady Olenna said, leaving the old Mr. Reed happy enough. He’d not win the cup, but acknowledgement that he might in the absence of a foregone conclusion seemed to be enough for today.

“Granny, I was just saying the Starks should come to dinner, or perhaps luncheon, the best to admire our gardens during the day, what do you say?”

Lady Olenna looked Jon up and down. “Might as well. Come along Margaery, let’s have a look at some of these other stalls.”

“Will you walk with us, Mrs. Stark,” Margaery said, smiling brightly. Sansa knew why Margaery was doing that and didn't like it, but at least she hadn't asked Jon. Even Margaery wasn't that forward.

“I’d be delighted, thank you,” Lyanna said, looking a bit bewildered at the attention.

“I best go with them,” Catelyn said to Sansa and Jon. “The Tyrells can’t be taken on alone.”

When she had stepped away, Jon turned to Bran, “What was that about?”

He shrugged. “Seems ridiculous to call this a contest if it really isn’t.”

“There’s no need to insult anyone over it,” Jon replied. “Why don’t you go judge the rest of the flowers for yourself and decide just how deep the injustice is.”

Bran looked at his brother and Sansa and chuckled before leaving to the other end of the hall, where Lyanna and Catelyn had gone. Before moving away, he turned back to the Reeds to congratulate them. He chanced a glance at Meera, who smiled at him and shook her head. He hadn't done anything, really, but he had done what the Reeds couldn't and that was something. 

“In fairness to Bran,” Sansa said to Jon when it was finally just the two of them standing together, stepping away from the stall to walk around. “I don’t think Lady Olenna was insulted. She’s just not used to being challenged.”

“I wouldn’t have thought he’d even be interested in flowers enough to care.”

Sansa asked, “Are you? I should think this is not nearly so interesting as anything you would have encountered in India.”

“I’m interested in the village,” Jon said. “This may sound surprising, perhaps, or merely reveal me to be a deeply uninteresting person, but I like life in Winterfell much better than anywhere else I've been. It’s nice to see everyone gathered like this.”

“Not so stuffy and boring as a dinner party?”

Jon laughed and looked down, as if being caught. Sansa smiled. “I don’t disapprove, if you think so," she said. "To be honest, I rather agree.”

Jon looked up again at her, surprised.

They stood at the front end of the room in contented silence for a few minutes, before Sansa spoke again. “How are you and papa getting on with the estate?”

“All right, I suppose. I must admit there’s more to it than I thought. We’ll be inspecting new cottages being built in the village this afternoon, as a matter of fact.”

“On a Sunday! You know what all work and no play did for Jack.”

“You think I’m a dull boy anyway, don’t you? I play, too.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows, now her turn to be surprised. She'd think he was flirting with her if . . . well, if he weren't Jon and she weren't Sansa. Hearing laughter across the room, she said, “You best not let Miss Tyrell hear you say that. She might pounce on you.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Jon, you’re father’s heir and unmarried. Don’t tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind that young ladies near and far might take an interest in the county's newest eligible bachelor.”

She smiled as a slight blush came over his cheeks. “I’ve honestly tried not to think about it,” he said quietly.

After a beat, she said, “Robb didn’t like the attention anymore than you do, but it comes with the territory.”

“He never mentioned it outright in his letters, but I had started to suspect there was someone in particular he liked.”

“It was Margaery. It’s not in her nature to express disappointment, but I do think losing him affected her—at least, I’d like to think he is missed by more than just his family.”

“No need to worry on that score,” Jon said, with a smile of fond remembrance. “I can attest to the fact that he left many broken hearts in his wake.”

Sansa smiled and took a deep breath. It was almost odd how, for all his awkwardness, at times he knew how to say the perfect thing when it needed saying. She looked around again and noticed that Margaery was looking at them from across the room, near the stage, where the crowd was starting to come together for the announcement of the winner.

“Let’s go join everyone,” Sansa said. “If I keep you to myself any longer, Margaery might claw my eyes out.”

“I suppose better you than me.”

Sansa laughed and wished that it wasn’t so obvious as it now felt just how much she liked him.

Jon, for his part, couldn’t believe how pleasing was to hear her laugh, to know that he had prompted it, to hear her use the words, “keep you to myself.”

He thought, _If only._


End file.
